Whatever The Flame Touches
by icanhearthedrums
Summary: AU-verse where Harry Hart is much younger in age when the movie happens. Harry Hart was only six when he was trained to become a cold-blooded assassin. At 13, he finds salvation within a secret organization known only as The Kingsman. When tragedy strikes, Harry watches over a fatherless boy known as Eggsy from afar. This is story of Harry's life. Harry/Merlin, Harry/Eggsy
1. Chapter 1

"Mama?" The little boy coughed against the black smoke, but his feet kept running, his heart pounding a mile a minute in his little chest.

He had to find his parents. There was fire everywhere, and his mama and papa had been taking a nap in their room because it's hard work taking care of a six year old child and working two jobs.

"Mama!" The boy cried again, running up the stairs, almost tripping on the last step, scrambling on frantic feet down the hallway.

Fire...Fire everywhere. It was coming from all the places of the house, and the smoke was blinding and choking the boy's little lungs, but he didn't care. He was too scared to think of anything else. He had to find his parents.

The boy coughed, hacked and coughed some more, eyes watering so badly, and burning so much he could barely see an inch in front of his face. He yelped loudly when a crack resounded from the ceiling, and a beam fell directly in front of him.

He coughed again, covering his mouth with the sleeves of his jammies, remembering how, at school, they taught the children that smoke rises and they should get on the floor to keep away from it.

The beam was blocking most of the hallway, and the boy saw only one opening near the bottom of the floor where there was a triangular gap, just big enough for him to squeeze through.

He sucked in a breath of heated air, dropped to his knees, and started to crawl through. The smoke didn't get much better down there, and when the boy carefully crossed through, placing one soot-smudged hand over another to make his way along the floor, he could feel the flames from the fire-eaten log on his tender back.

But he could bear it. He's felt worse pain than this. The children at his school were bullies, hurtful and spiting to a child that was a decade younger than them. But it wasn't his fault they advanced him five grades. They said he was clever; genius-level intellect, his headmistress had told his parents.

Well, he was thankful now for their constant tormenting. He had enough pain tolerance to deal with this heat. He could deal with it. He could bear it.

He just needed to find his parents, and then they could all leave this house, and then the pain will stop.

The pain will stop.

"PAPA!" The boy cried out, voice strained and hoarse from the smoke and the screaming. He'd gotten through the tiny opening, and was off running down the hallway again.

The door to his parent's bedroom was wide open, and black smoke was billowing out of it, like how it had come out of their oven when papa had accidentally burned the turkey during Christmas dinner last year.

And as before, the boy dropped to the floor, crawling on his knees and hands to the opening. Why weren't his parents answering him?!

"MAMA!" The boy coughed out, rounded the corner and fumbled his way into his parent's room. "PA - "

The boy choked on a startled gasp, eyes watering but too paralyzed to close against the sight before him.

Fire.

Mama...Papa...

They were on their bed; The same bed he liked to jump into in the mornings to wake them up. And they'd grumble playfully before pulling him down and tickling him to within an inch of his life.

But they weren't sleeping. No. They couldn't be sleeping when the flames were devouring their flesh like they were a pair of human-sized candles.

The boy's age meant he was too young to understand the full impact of just what he was seeing, but he was not a stranger to the idea of death. His dog, Mr. Pickles, had died from choking on a piece of cork he'd accidentally swallowed. He'd been two at the time, too young to know what to do, and his mama had been in the loo when it happened. He'd cried when Mr. Pickles finally fell silent, twitching on the floor every once in awhile.

His mother had told him that the cork had clogged his windpipe and Mr. Pickles couldn't breathe, so God decided to take him away from his pain and suffering. He's in a happier place now.

Then, did that mean that God had come and took his mama and papa away? But what about him?! He was in a lot of pain right now. The fire from the log had burned his skin, and his lungs and chest felt like it was on fire...like his parents were.

Why wasn't God taking him away? The pain. It hurts so bad.

He didn't know whether he was crying or if the smoke was causing the tears to stream down his face. He didn't care. He screamed, he yelled, he crawled to the bed, grabbing ahold of any parts of it that wasn't on fire and shaking it with all his tiny muscles would allow. Surely his mother and father would hear him and wake up to soothe him.

They'd shush him, cradle him to their chest, and rock him back to sleep.

The fires licked away at his skin, and the boy cried out, vision blurring with the smoke and tears clouding it. The fire burned away the flesh from his parents' bodies, turning it black. Soon there'd be nothing.

No amount of tantrums or violent outbursts could induce that comfort from his mama and papa anymore. No. They were gone. Ashes to ashes...dust to dust.

He didn't stop screaming, though, not even when a pair of gloved hands picked him up and brought him out of the house. Didn't stop fighting, not even when he felt a pinprick on his neck, and the last thing he saw before darkness took him over was a gas mask. He wondered, in the moment before he dropped over the edge into oblivion, whether God was now taking him away from his pain.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

The pain was not gone, merely displaced for the moment, that's all his muddled brain could conclude when the boy woke groggily to a blindingly-lit white room. His limbs felt heavy, and his head swam as if he was on those carnival rides that spun you around and around until you staggered off and vomited into a rubbish bin.

A pair of unfriendly green eyes drifted into his vision, thankfully shading some of the light from his sensitive pupils, and the boy's slow mind finally registered that he was lying on a metal slab for a table. His wrists. His legs. All tied down.

Where was he?! Where were his parents!? Who was this man!?

He opened his mouth to ask, but nothing came of it except more gagging and coughing.

The man in the mask tsk-ed at him, like one would an unruly child, turned away to do something beyond the boy's field of vision. Though the man seemed unfriendly, he was all the boy had right now; his only lifeline to any chance at comprehending what he'd just woken to.

"Pl - " The boy croaked, throat a dull ache compared to the fire from before, "Please come - "

The masked man and the unfriendly eyes were back, along with a needle so sharp its tip glinted in the bright overhead surgical light.

"Hold still, kid." The man - doctor - said in a thick Russian accent, then sunk the needle into the skin at the crook of the boy's elbow.

When the boy woke again, he was in a bed. Lumpy enough where it was probably more fitting to be called a mat than a bed. And the place he was in was bare and drab and gray and dank and dark and small enough where it was more a cell than a room.

He was alone when he pushed himself up on shaky arms, looking around with suspiciously calm eyes.

The logical part of his mind told him, screamed at him, that he should be freaking out. He should be banging on the walls, looking for somebody - anybody - to tell him what was going on.

Where were his parents? They were gone.

Where was he? Was this a hospital? No, a hospital didn't have cells like these. He's been in the hospital a few times after a fight with a bully got too out of hand, and the food and environment could have used some improvements, but this...this was something different.

He didn't know why he was feeling so calm, probably had something to do with the stuff that Russian doctor injected him with.

Whatever it was, he found that he didn't really care. He was contented to just stay there. There was no fire, but his body felt warm. Warm enough where he didn't need the thin covers on his cot. The lighting was perfect, and the boy shrugged to himself, thinking this was better than being put into those foster care places that he'd heard so much about.

He brought his legs up to his chest, and hugged them with his arms. Rested his chin there, and let his mind wander. Time passed in its own rhythm, one that the boy was sure was too slow to be real. But he didn't care.

Some time during this endless litany of silence and contemplation, interspersed with random thoughts of his parents and fire, the boy had started to hum to himself, a lullaby his mother used to sing to him for him to sleep. The pain was gone, if only for the moment, the boy would be happy with that. His parents weren't there anymore, so he rocked himself for comfort. Hummed to himself for comfort.

They came days...but really could have been mere hours...later, unlocking his dark cell and leading him out with a tight grip on his thin arm.

The lights were too bright in the hallway, and the boy squinched his eyes shut to keep them from hurting. And even in the darkness behind his lids, the spots of white dotted his vision. The hand led him down a hallway, then another, then an elevator, then stepped out, to the right, down another hallway.

A knock against metal, and a call 'ENTER!'. The metal groaned as it opened, and the boy was pulled inside.

"Open your eyes, little one." A voice, gravelly with age and abuse.

The boy did as he was told, partly because he was feeling quite docile at the moment, and partly because the still sane part of his mind was telling him he better do as they say because he was in some deep shite right now.

The room had been dimmed, and the man behind the desk was shrouded in darkness, the only thing visible being his beringed hands and torso behind the heavily decorated, ornate wood table.

One hand gripped the armrest of the large wingbacked chair, and the torso moved forwards slightly, the chair creaking at the action. The boy got the distinct impression he was being studied. At any other time, without this damned haze clouding his mind, he'd be fidgeting under the scrutiny.

"You were quite the handful, dear boy, did you know that?"

The boy shrunk a bit from the criticism. Troublemaker, his teachers would always call him. Know-it-all brat, his older classmates would hiss at him. Handful, was just a more pleasant label.

"Do you know why you are here, dear boy?"

He bit his lip, worrying it in a way his mother always told him was bad for him. But it was a nervous tick, one that broke through the calm in his mind, and he was reluctant to stop this familiar gesture. His life, his memories, his personality, his very being was all that he had left in this world. He'd hold onto it with a death grip, and nothing could tear that away from him.

He shook his head, and the darkness above the man's torso shifted. A nod.

"I shall tell you then." The man said, leaning back in his chair with a small sigh. A henchman (because what else could the man in the suit, standing idly in the corner of the room until now, be) approached the man behind the desk, producing a cigarette from his coat pocket and holding it into the darkness where the man's head supposedly was.

The cigarette disappeared into the void, and then appeared for a few flickering moments when the henchman lit a match and held it to the end.

Smoke rose from the darkness, and the boy shivered. _Black smoke billowing from his parent's room. MAMA! PAPA!_

"You, my boy, have been chosen. Quite an honor, you'll soon find out. You see..."

Puff. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke. Shiver.

"The majority of the people in this world scurry around like ants, living their pathetic little lives filled with rules and regulations, and laws, and do's and do not's. Now, don't get me wrong, laws are the backbone of civilized society. But who make these laws? Humans. And humans are flawed creatures. No human walking this Earth would not succumb to their most base desires, if given the right amount of pressure on just the right spot. The point at which we succumb is what separates us from the scum of the world. Politicians, judges, even the nun working the homeless shelter. They wouldn't hesitate to - "

The boy shifted his weight from his right to his left foot, knowing this explanation would take awhile, so might as well get as comfortable as he could to wait it out. The man droned on and on about the corruptibility of the modern world, how criminals with enough money got off with only a slap on the wrist, and how convicted murderers, rapists, the most disgusting souls walked because some idiot in forensics forgot to wash their damn hands before handling the evidence...blah blah blah

"After all, justice in this world is just a bunch of principles, made by those with power to suit themselves."

Puff. Inhale. Exhale. The chair creaked as the man leaned forwards and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the desk. The gold ring on the man's left pinky glinted in the dim light hanging above the desk, and the boy's heightened sight picked up the large K on the ring. Could smell the distinct hint of cloves as the paper stick got crushed under unrelenting pressure.

"But, I digress. You, my boy, you have been chosen to be one of the few worthy enough to cleanse this world of its dirt. Just because a murderer has been released with all charges dropped, doesn't mean he'll stop killing. It'll be up to you, dear boy, to make sure he doesn't get another chance to."

The boy swallowed. Surely, he should be turning back to the door and making a break for it. If he were in his right mind, he would have. He would have told the bastard what he could do with his pretty, self-righteous words, then punch the other man in the bollocks before running as fast as he could out of this place. If only...

But he didn't. The logical, sane part of his mind was blanketed with a warm and calming veil, and all he could do was nod at the man when he asked whether the boy understood.

"Good boy, you certainly are a smart one. I knew it the moment I saw you at your school. Bright kid, I said to myself. Beautiful, too. You'd have all those pedophiliacs slobbering all over you the moment they lay an eye on your face, those deviant bastards. They deserve nothing less than having a knife shoved up their arses. You'd be the one doing that, my boy, and I just know you'll grow to enjoy giving those disgusting predators what they deserve."

The boy nodded once more, shifted again on his feet.

The man praised him on his obedience, such a good boy he is, sent him on his way with a verbal pat on the head as if shooing him to bed.

_Sleep well, love, mama will see you in the morning, yeah?_

He's led to the Russian doctor again, and this time, the boy's calm almost breaks. The man's holding a white hot brand in his gloved hand, and orders the boy to turn a bit. Somebody lifted his shirt, and then the world was once again filled with pain. Blinding hot pain. The skin atop the left side of his ribs sizzled and cooked when the brand touched it, and the smell reminds the boy of his parents being eaten by the flames.

He screamed...screamed so hard he coughed up blood.

When the brand was taken away, it offered only a modicum of relief. The boy would have sunk to the floor, sobbing, if it weren't for the strong grip on his arm. "You did well, kid. I've seen others bigger than you faint just at the sight of the damn thing."

The boy couldn't respond, just nodded because this seemed to be all they looked for in regards to his opinion on matters. They brought him back to his cell, leaving him there with his agony and his misery and his tears and the same question running through his mind over and over again.

Why has God abandoned him?

xxxx

They began his training the day after. And three years of grueling sparring and various advanced studies of all fields later, the assignments came. Needles constantly injected into his arms, keeping the calm in his mind. And then the withdrawals. Those were the worst. Kept him going back to his handler each and every single time he was done with the kill. Who his targets were, the boy didn't care. It was just another face in his crosshairs, another cock he was luring, another dead body.

But as the years passed, within the small amounts of clarity (a half hour at most in between coming down from his high and the desperate yearnings of withdrawal), the boy's rage and resistance towards his 'employers' grew. His defiance boiled like the brand on his body, like the flames that ate away his family. A fire rising deep from within him, always lit but flaring every time he had a hold of his sanity.

The human body was capable of adapting to many things, if given the chance to do so gradually. With the constant injections of the drug, his tolerance grew. And soon, he became more than accustomed to the dosage. But the boy never told anyone, certainly not the Russian doctor known simply as Mikael who liked to call him 'kid' all the time.

He knew this was his chance. The chains that bound him were fraying, and soon they'd fall away completely. He would be free. And so he began to plot. Laid insidious plans everywhere he was given the chance to.

The amount they injected into him took the edge off of the worst of the withdrawals, and the boy's had more than enough experience with misery and suffering to deal with the rest. All he needed to do was act normal, so that meant keeping the jitters and trembling to the privacy of his cell. He couldn't count the number of times he'd wanted to blurt out just how bad he wanted the next hit.

But then that fire in his heart sizzled as he looked down at the brand on his chest, was reminded of how his parents were conveniently taken away so that only his devotion to this cause was left, and the boy would worry his lip until it bled because that was better than speaking out and ruining the plans he'd set in motion.

All of the hard work was not in vain, and at the age of thirteen, the boy finally broke free from his captors.

He took the shot, some German politician that's been sexually molesting all of his female staff, packed up his rifle, and ran. He's got one hour to get back to his handler. Another half hour before the handler turns on the tracker to check his location.

That meant he had thirty minutes of clarity before the withdrawals kicked in. And another hour for him to get the fuck out of dodge.

The adrenaline of the kill and the thrill of freedom propelled the uncaged bird across rooftops, ledges, porches, streets, anyplace that would take him out of the city and into the obscurity of rural areas. That would be kind of hard, seeing as how he was in Dusseldorf. The tunnels, then, that'll have to do.

The boy slowed to a walk as he felt his high coming to an end, discarding the rifle and his clothes like a trail of breadcrumbs along the way. When the last piece of clothing, his pants, were shed and replaced with a pair of jeans he'd nicked from a laundry basket, he turned and went the opposite way.

It wasn't until he found a small nook in Dusseldorf's massive amount of underground tunnels that the boy allowed himself to rest. Shivering and trembling and in pain from the withdrawals now actively blazing its way through the boy's resolve, the teenager fell into restless sleep.

He woke and surfaced only to drink, and even that, he had to force himself to do, because he wanted nothing more than to just stay huddled in that hole and die. Or better yet, get some drugs into his system. His arms itched, and no amount of scratching relieved it.

His mind, tortured with nightmares of his dead parents locking him in a burning room. His body, a furnace from the fever raging within him.

One whole week, he stayed underground. And when he finally gained enough sanity back to stagger out into the light, breathing the fresh air as a free man in more ways than one...he cried.

Tears first, silent and wet against his dirty cheeks. Then he felt the sun on his skin, the wind sweeping away the warmth of it with its cold chill. A choked gasp, and the dam broke.

He barely felt the pain in his knees as they crashed against the hard pavement. His back slammed backwards into the wall behind him, and he let it all out. Choking, gasping on the emotions that overwhelmed him.

His ragged sobs buried into his hands, the crowds gave the crazy urchin boy plenty of space as they moved on blissfully with their life.

And beyond the backdrop of his joyous wails, a mantra repeated itself over and over again in the back of his mind; the last mission he'd ever partake in, one that he'd assigned to himself.

Kill them...Kill them...

Kill them for what they've done!

KILL THEM!

KILL THEM ALL!

xxxx

He didn't know how long he stayed slumped on the floor of the dirty Dusseldorf street, back pressed to the cold side of a building, hands shielding his face and tears from the world.

"Geht es dir gut?"

The question was unexpected. Not so much the question itself, but the fact that it was directed towards him, It was enough for his sobs to catch in his throat. His eyes drifted upwards to where a man with white hair and a concerned face was eye-level with him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the days of malnourishment, of suffering, of putting one brick of willpower onto the wall only for it to crumble back down again and he'd have to repeat the process...all of that left him weak and dazed. He didn't know what to say. So he opted for nothing, closing his mouth and dropping his eyes away. The less attention he got, the better. His handler would still be looking for him.

"I said, 'Are you all right, son?'" The stranger repeated, mistakenly taking his silence as inability to understand German.

He lifted his eyes again, weary blue eyes staring into concerned brown. Brown, like the hot chocolate his mother used to make for him on cold nights.

"I'm fine." he said, and winced at the horrid quality of his voice.

"Ahh...English, then." the stranger said with a smile that brightened his face.

The boy huffed out a laugh, exhausted eyes slipping closed.

"Please open your eyes, son."

_Open your eyes, little one._

The boy flinched slightly at the insidious slip of his mind, but obeyed, wondering why this man was crouched in a well-tailored suit on the sidewalk, talking to a dirty, trembling urchin boy (because that's all he was now. He had nothing left to him but his name, his memories, his weapons, and his revenge).

"When was the last time you ate?" The stranger asked, bringing out a bottle of water from nowhere, uncapping it and holding it out for the boy to take.

The boy hesitated. This could be a trap. The water could be spiked with sedatives. This kind man, with the white hair and laugh lines at the corner of his eyes and soft smile, could be the honey that'll lead him to his captors.

But his body won out, cursing his weakness, all the while accepting the bottle and tilting it towards his lips. He gulped it down in five quick chugs, coughing a bit at the end.

"Steady, son, you'll throw it all back up again at that pace."

The boy dropped the bottle to the floor, raising a dirty wrist to his mouth to wipe the spare droplets of water away. A hand caught his arm in mid-air, and it took all of the boy's willpower to keep from lashing out in defense.

But the man didn't seem to be trying to harm him, or pulling him by the wrist away into some unmarked white van. A pristine white handkerchief popped out of nowhere and appeared in the man's hand. _Fucking magician or something_, the boy thought to himself as he followed the journey of the white napkin to his face.

The stranger was hesitant in his movements, meaning he wanted the boy to see what he was doing. So the boy let him, let this kind man with white hair and concerned brown eyes that reminded the boy of happier times wipe water from his jaw and cheek.

His throat felt much better now, and he found he had more incentive to speak.

"Why - " The boy said, then cleared his throat to try and get rid of the frog lodged in it. "Why are you doing this?"

The stranger's smile turned sad. "Because no one should live without knowing the warmth of a friendly touch."


	2. Chapter 2

NOTE: Just a quick warning that, at the beginning of this chapter, there is a brief mention of underage prostitution/sex.

The boy thought of the kind man's words as he let his latest john fuck into him from behind. 'A friendly touch'. Hah!

The boy had smiled back at the stranger, shook his hand, thanked him, and walked away on his own two feet. That was two weeks ago. The watch he'd stolen from the man was expensive, but the local pawnshops wouldn't pay more than ten percent of what it was really worth. But what could the boy do. He'd taken the money, gotten a little food, tracked down the nearest hostel to get a shower, ripped some holes into his jeans, and stolen a tighter shirt.

And then he'd stood on the sidewalks late at night, smoking cigarettes from a pack he'd also stolen, and waited.

This was for money to go by on. There were only so many wallets you could pick before you nicked from the wrong person and gained the wrong amount of attention. And so far, he's been doing pretty well in this line of work, if he may say so himself. Plus, it was a good way to distract himself from the irritating itch in his arms every time he saw one of the rent boys injecting shit into their veins.

In the end, it took only three months to move up the food chain until he'd reached the Man Behind The Desk. The boy had to scoff at the irony that the Man was right all along; there's only so far a drowning person would sink before they finally yielded and bartered for air.

A few threats of castration here, guns to the elderly mothers' heads there, and the boy gained enough information about the Man from his subordinates to know where to find him.

And a month of reconnaissance later, the boy was ready to make his move. Perched atop a roof a half mile away, the boy ran through his strategy as he fingered the multiple knives on his body. Three in a holster at the back of his cargo pants, two hidden in each of his sleeves, three along each ankle along with a handgun, flashbombs and grenades and various other items in his pockets.

First thing: get past the security systems. Second, those men in suits weren't tailors, that's for sure. So they'll have to go. Third, find the Man and kill him.

Simple as pi.

Surprisingly, it was easier getting through their security systems than he'd thought. Obviously, the guy in charge of the security systems had forgotten about the air vents.

Navigating them, though, was another thing all together.

There weren't many blueprints for him to work on, the place more secretive than Area 51 (he should know since he infiltrated it one time), But once he found the spot holding the motherload of all tech, it was quick work destroying it all. A quick spill of the right kind of acid ate through metal faster than any battering ram could, and he had vials and vials of it, which were efficiently and strategically aimed at the machines with the most wires and blinking lights.

As expected, the overhead lights shut off, and a red klaxon immediately started blaring. Time to get out.

He had just clicked the air vent grate back into place when two men in suits burst into the room. __"Too late, boys,"__ he thought to himself with a smile, then scurried his way through the maze to find the Man. From his intel, the Man was __also__ the top dog in this shady organization too.__Very__ high up, apparently.

Oh well, that just made him an easier target. Look for the person __everybody__ is looking to for direction, and slice that swine's throat wide open.

He couldn't have planned it better himself. He followed the sound of shouting all the way to ... some sort of conference room.

The boy made a right, careful not to make any noises. Just as he lay on his stomach in the air vent and peered out, he could make out nine men seated at a large table, four on either side with one man seated at the head.

Funny, they all wore glasses. Surely they didn't __all__ need prescription lenses did they? Which meant the glasses were a form of tech, themselves.

And the boy knew instantly that these men were dangerous. The klaxons were blaring and the lights were all off, but not a single one of them looked worried or anxious. The boy kept an eye on them while unscrewing the grate.

"A breach?" The man sitting at the head of the table said incredulously, and turned to look at the man seated to his right. "Galahad?"

"How would I know? I've been here with you the entire time, have I not?" The person being asked replied instantly.

But that was all that the boy needed to know. He knew who his target was. He'd recognized that voice anywhere.

The grate fell loose, and the boy threw a flash grenade into the conference room before the grate even hit the floor. He closed his eyes, braced himself for the bang, then dropped down to the table. In the sudden explosion, the nine men were caught off guard, and the boy quickly disarmed eight of them, quite literally breaking both arms of each person he encountered, and shooting the ones he couldn't reach.

Within a minute, the boy was the only one left standing amongst the group of moaning and groaning men he'd later know as the Kingsman. But in that moment, all he knew was that they were an obstacle out of the way.

That just left...

The Man was still sat in his seat when the boy swiveled his body to him, watching with an almost fond smile on his face. The audacity!

The boy grit his teeth, a growl low in his throat when the Man raised two hands and started clapping slowly. Once. Twice. "Bravo, my dear boy, bravo!" Clap Clap Clap.

The hands dropped back to the arm rest, and the boy could make out the signet K ring on his left hand. The pose of the man in the seat was so familiar to him, and yet so foreign. This was the first time the boy's seen his face. He was astonished at just how handsome it was. And younger than he'd thought. There was a smile on the bastard's face, almost as if he was proud of the boy for being here to execute him.

"So this is what you've been up to, my dear. I had to punish poor Boris for letting you out of his sight."

"Silence, you sanctimonious blathering idiot!" The boy snarled, advancing on the man.

"Now, now. That's not the way to talk to the very person who made you what you are, now is it?" The man said, wagging a finger in the air.

The boy drew his gun and shot the finger off, laughing loudly (probably manically) at the startled look on the man's face as he clutched the index-less hand to his chest with a loud gasp.

"What did you think I was doing here, if not to kill you?" The boy asked, hopping onto the table, taking calculated steps over folders and pens.

He'll savor this. Every single moment of it. "You killed my parents." Another step forwards. "__Forced__ me into your employ through the use of drugs." Another step. "And turned a six year old child into a killer. But that's not the real reason you are facing my wrath." He stopped at the edge, feet hanging half off and half on the solid ground.

He leveled his gun at the man's head, and cocked it. "Through your actions, you have damaged my pride. And for that, you shall atone with your DEATH!"

"PLEASE DON'T!"

The plea was unexpected. Not because of the words themselves, but because it did not come out of the man that he was currently towering over.

He recognized that voice too. White hair, brown eyes, now not smiling.

The man - the kind stranger he'd nicked the watch from, the same man that had been the first person in seven years to offer him anything beyond cold apathy or dark interest was lying on the floor.

Both of his elbows had been shot out by the boy's guns, but that didn't stop him from crawling his way from out of the group of bloody men and towards the boy.

"I know who you are. And I know what he's done." The man said, trying valiantly to hold back the agony from his voice. And for the first time in seven years, the boy felt regret for his actions.

"Please, don't stoop to his level," The stranger continued saying, crawling inch by painful inch with useless arms. "You have good inside you, I can tell."

The boy shouldn't have listened, shouldn't have taken his eyes off of the Man, off of his real objective. In this moment of distraction, the Man had drawn his own gun. At the sound of the metal cocking and the bullet sliding into place, the boy spun around in time to avoid the shot going straight through his temple.

He grabbed the wrist holding the gun, snapped it with a shove of his hand against the delicate bone, dropped and rolled off of the table, the arm still caught in his grips.

With the momentum of his roll, the Man's arm was pulled in the wrong direction, cracking and dislocating out of its socket while the Man cried out in agony. In this position, the boy was free to pull out his knife and jab it to the skin of the bastard's throat. "Wrong move," He whispered, then pulled the blade along the flesh, drawing blood.

"Stop!"

The blade halted once more, and the boy let out a frustrated huff of breath. "What now, old man? More inspirational words to distract me?"

"No," The stranger had somehow gotten onto his feet, now standing with his bleeding arms by the deserted chair. "just know that if you kill him, then all of those that have suffered the same fate as you will be doomed. We need him to figure out how many there still are."

The boy blinked, frowned at the stranger. The Man let out a whimper, and the boy placed more pressure on the arm. The whimper turned into a full blown scream.

"There are no more," The boy said, so quiet the stranger almost didn't hear. The poor boy's eyes took on a distant quality, recalling the scores of charred bodies he'd found in the cells. "I am the last."

The stranger must have come closer, using his introspection to his advantage. But when he noticed, the boy jerked away, pulling the Man with him, ignoring the agonized cry.

The stranger recoiled a tad bit, and the boy relaxed minutely when he saw the placating look on his face.

"I don't understand." The stranger said, and the furrowed brows spoke true of his words. "The intel we gathered showed that there were still dozens of - "

"They're. all__. dead__!" The boy said, voice rising higher. "I went back there. That's the first thing I did, and guess what I found. A bunch of ashes and bones still in their cells. They burned them after ..." The boy's eyes closed from the pain of remembering, from the devastation, and there was silence for a bit as the only sounds that filled the room were the men's ragged breathing and his quiet sobs. The boy could feel hysteria building in his chest, this need to laugh at the irony of it all.

Through soft chuckles, the boy spoke again, "They - they used their addiction against them. These bastards..." The chuckling slowly increased to a rumbling laugh, maniacal in tone. In this tiny lapse of control, the boy's arms slackened, and the knife fell away. The Man took this opportunity to slink out from under his assailant, and started crawling as best as he could to the door.

"They didn't even have the courage to kill them," The boy said through his laughter, "Just left the drugs there in the cell for them to overdose with." The laugh soon died down as the rage took over once more. "And then when they were dead, they set each cell on fire."

The stranger's kind brown eyes darkened drastically, turning on the bastard trying desperately to crawl his way to the door. But even without looking, the boy could tell that those agents in suits lying scattered along the length of the conference room, wounded though they may be, wouldn't let their corrupt leader past them.

The boy stood up, gripping his gun tightly, taking comfort in the heavy weight of it in his hands.

"Do not become like him. You're a not a murderer. But if you kill him now, then you will become one. That's what you will have to live with for the rest of your life." The stranger said, and the boy could tell the man was losing blood by the slight slur in the words.

The boy smiled sardonically at the kind man, "Galahad, right? That's what he called you."

The stranger nodded, and the boy swiveled his eyes back to where the Man was now waiting patiently on the floor for his sentence, trying very hard not to cower. "I have no wish to live beyond this. If I must die a murderer, then so be it."

"Please, listen to me. I am not pleading with you for his life. He will face his justice, one way or another. The things he did to you were only the tip of the iceberg. But do not darken your soul for him any further. He's not worth it." Galahad said, and the boy's jaw clenched.

"My soul is pitch black already, my ledger drenched with blood - "

"But you can wipe it clean again. I'll give you the opportunity to do so. You're a smart boy, you've done your research. You know who we are and what we do. Your salvation, if you choose to take it, is with us. But prove to us that you can do this. Let him live, let him face the consequences of his actions."

The boy swallowed, breathed in, and raised the gun to where the pale bastard was trembling on the floor. "'After all, justice in this world is just a bunch of principles, made by those with power to suit themselves.' Isn't that what you said to me?" The boy said to the Man. He was either too in shock or too terrified to respond.

The boy breathed in, grit his teeth, aimed... "How do I know I can trust you?" He spoke to the stranger, but he was staring right at the spot on the Man's forehead, the spot he'd place a bullet through.

"You can't," Galahad said, "But if you didn't trust me, even just a little, you would have killed him __and__ yourself already, not debating on a choice your heart has already made for you."

"There are still more of them out there," The boy said, "I won't stop until I've found every single last one of them."

"That's your decision. But at this moment, which one will you make?"

The grip tightened on the trigger, and the Man couldn't hold back the slight gurgle of fear as the trigger depressed further.

The boy bit his bottom lip, breathed out a sigh, and lowered the gun. "He's yours."

He closed his eyes, and turned away from the man that represented every single thing that was horrible about his past, and tried with all his might to allow himself to hope again.

__Open your eyes, son.__

xxxx

"Why am I here, and not in the trainees' quarters?" The boy asked, clutching the pillow and blanket Galahad made him hold while he unraveled the fold-out couch. He watched the older man unzip the piles of fresh linen, marveling at the medical technology the Kingsman had at their disposal.

Less than a week since the boy's attack at their headquarters, and all of the agents he'd wounded were completely healed up again. Something about bone grafts, lasers, blah blah blah.

Merlin, that guy, he was a bit of a nerd. But he was a funny one, and the man was nice to him even though it was __his__ tech that the boy had gotten through with such ease. If anything, there was a glint in the young man's eye, and a flow of respect and humor that swept through Merlin's words and devilish smirk whenever the boy had to talk to him.

"Because you're not a trainee, or a recruit. You are a Kingsman, son. Unanimously voted in to be my replacement, of all things. First Kingsman in history to bypass the usual recruitment mumbo jumbo, and also...might I add, old chap...youngest recruit in Secret Service history." Galahad said, waving out the sheets, and ignored the slightly sheepish grumble, "That contradicts itself." from the boy.

"Either way," Galahad said, standing up and moving to the side, allowing the awkward boy to dispose of the blanket and pillow onto the newly sheeted mattress, "any person, let alone a thirteen year old, who could infiltrate one of the most secure places in London and disarm all eight Kingsman in one fell swoop, deserves at least a fold-out bed and a homemade meal, wouldn't you say?"

The boy studied Galahad's face for any hint of mockery or lies, as he did every time Galahad said such things to him. And as it did every time this happened, the boy found nothing to show that Galahad was speaking less than the truth. He ducked his eyes away, uncomfortable with such affectionate compliments. Blanket and pillow piled on, the boy followed suit, crawling into the mattress with a contented sigh that was more suited for a million-dollar bed and not this lumpy old thing.

The older man puttered around, stoking the flames in the fireplace to make sure the room stayed heated, turned off the lights, closed the curtains, all followed by the boy's sharp eyes.

Satisfied the room was dark enough for the boy's liking, the man made his way back to where the boy was lying awkwardly on the futon. In the dim flickering light of the fire, brown eyes smiled down at him.

"Good night, Harry."

The boy didn't answer, and the man didn't seem to require any, turning on his heel and quietly making his way to the stairs.

"Galahad." The name spoken into the quiet, pulling the man to a pause at the first step. White hair turned towards Harry.

"What's your real name?"

The man's smile turned sheepish, "If you can believe it, it's King. Chester King."

A kind smile, returned with cautious vigor. The boy wiggled and squirmed in his futon until he was comfortable.

"Good night...Arthur."


	3. Chapter 3

_Harry blinked against the blinding light streaming through the open cell door, tilting his head away from the source of discomfort. _

_A large shadow cast over his cot where Harry had been sitting, his knees tucked to his chest for the past three hours, reciting Dante's Inferno in his mind. _

_**There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery. **How apt._

_"Hello again, my boy."_

_It was the man in the dark; the puppeteer, and Harry the puppet. _

_Harry didn't have the capacity to respond right now, still lost in the world of Dante, his mind barely registering the other presence in the room. The doctor had injected him with a higher dosage tonight, Harry knew. He'd seen the extra milliliter in the needle before he'd stopped caring again. _

_The door closed with a loud clang, the bolt sliding back into place, and the dark prevailed once more. _

_The uncomfortable pressure against his eyes faded away with the light, and Harry breathed out in content, thoughts drifting, but a part of him heard The Man say, "I've heard you are excelling in all of your studies." _

_A statement, not requiring a response, so Harry didn't give any. _

_The cot dipped as a body settled on the edge of it, close enough next to Harry where he could feel the heat coming off of the other man. _

_Harry tightened his arms around his knees, resting his cheek against the knobby bones as he stared at the wall, counting the cracks in the cement. _

_A large palm pressed itself to Harry's hunched back, and stayed pressed there, a transference of heat and - possibly calm? - from the captor to the captive. _

_"I believe it is time for you to begin a new lesson, my boy."_

_The words, breathed out against the lobe of Harry's ear. Harry could pick out the faint hint of clove cigarettes and scotch even with his face turned the other way. _

_**Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always.**_

_The hand on his back shifted. A slow and soothing rhythm - up and down, up and down. __Gentle, calming, and in Harry's euphoria...sensitizing._

_Soft lips pressed themselves to the skin behind Harry's ear, so soft Harry wondered if he'd simply imagined it._

_Ahh, but there it was again. This time dipping lower...and lower...and lower still to his neck. _

_Tingly, this new sensation. But nice. He wanted to feel more of it._

_"Be patient, dear heart, you shall have more in due time."_

_He must have said it aloud. He hadn't noticed. __Didn't notice anything much right now, to be honest. _

_He felt adrift, his body floating along with his mind in a delightful, fluid haze. The only things that mattered now were the light touches against his chest, the mouth against his collar bone, nipping pleasantly. Where they touched, the skin felt alight with warmth, like taking your hand away from the heat of the fireplace and back into the cold. _

_His whole world tunneled down now to these unusual and new...feelings. Sensations._

_"I believe your first lesson should be taken slow, my boy. Perhaps an exercise in kissing, and then let's see how you do from there, yes? You are a wee little thing, after all."_

_Time flowed in its own rhythm, intersected only by the completion of one lesson and the beginning of another._

_Kissing, was first. What an odd act. All tongue and wetness and grabby hands._

_"Excellent," The breathless voice praised when Harry pulled away for air. _

_Sucking came next. _

_"Sheath your teeth with your lips. That's right, my dear. Oh yes, you truly are a fast learner. Now, see if you can take a little more."_

_And then..._

_"How beautiful you are, dear heart. No, no, do not touch yourself. This is not for your enjoyment, always remember that. This is a chore. A necessity. You are bait on the fishing lure. Now, lay on your back. I'll show you how to prepare yourself for me."_

_The bed lifted as the man stood up, buckling his belt._

_Harry watched with blown pupils as the dark figure, his face cast into the shadows as always, smoothed down his hair and clothes. The Man had taken the same care and consideration when he'd gone off for a towel and came back __after they were done with the lesson__, wiping Harry clean between the legs and redressed him. _

_It reminded Harry of how his mother used to pick his clothes out for him for school, then have to chase him around the house as he ran buck naked, screaming "You shall never catch me!"_

_A part of his mind, the sane part, screamed and raged and cried for what he'd just lost. _

_But the rest of his drug-addled brain didn't fully grasp the magnitude of what had just happened. He didn't care enough to._

_The man bent down, the shadows shifting enough for Harry to pick that out, ran a hand over Harry's chest where he still lay supine on the cot, and Harry closed his eyes as he accepted the gentle kiss. _

_"Wonderful lesson, my dear. We shall see if you remember what you've learned when I come back next week."_

_The cell door opened again after the man rapped a sequence against it. Harry jerked his head away from the light, waiting for the darkness to come back, welcoming it with open arms. _

_Dante's words floated along the field of his attention as he stared at the cracks in the concrete, listened to the bolt sliding back into place. Locked away, once more._

_**I wept not, so to stone within I grew.**_

Harry blinked awake at the soft hand on his shoulder shaking him. The man in front of him took his hand away, leaning back into his seat once he was sure the boy was alert.

"We're almost there, kid." He said with a small tilt of his lips upward.

"Don't call me 'kid'," Harry grumbled reflexively, running a hand through his hair to try and hide the blush at being caught sleeping.

Even though Harry was now a full-time Kingsman without the usual training that came along with being a new recruit, the boy's old ways of doing things had to be molded to the Kingsman's S.O.P. Like a piece of metal, still just as effective in its original form, but reshaped to the Kingsman's specifics.

He's worked with other people in his past, sometimes his jobs had called for it. But he'd never really gotten close enough to talk to anyone of them, and they were usually too hyped up with the drugs enough where they didn't care to.

And so, to have to figure out how to work 'as a team', that was something new that he'd have to get used to. But Harry prided himself on picking things up with a snap of his fingers, adapting and learning anything life threw his way as quickly and as efficiently as possible. And he caught on to this team-dynamic quicker than even _he_ thought was possible.

But the Service didn't think he was ready yet, it seemed. And so they worked him day in day out, making sure he really knew what he was doing in this new dynamic.

And after almost a year of these midnight calls, abruptly throwing him out of bed at all times of the night, pulling him out of the damn shower sometimes dripping wet for the smallest excuses, all of it culminated into this: with him accidentally falling asleep in the most random locations, and, many times, in different positions.

He still hasn't lived down the one where he was in the conference room during a meeting with all of the Kingsman, and he'd face-planted into his folder. When he'd spluttered awake, knife in hand, the men were trying desperately to hold back their snickers, looking to everywhere but at him. Surely the ceiling and floors weren't that interesting, were they?

Merlin, the one doing the presentation, had an odd look in his eyes - one that Harry has yet to figure out the source of - as he bit a hole in his lip, face red with the exertion, as he tried to keep from laughing.

The bastards.

Arthur liked to tease him during these times, saying that since he was still a growing boy, he shouldn't be embarrassed about taking afternoon naps. To which, the boy would always respond with, 'I'll take my afternoon naps with you, old man. All of the years packed on, it does tire one's senile self out, does it not?'

"Galahad."

His code name snapped him away from his tangent thoughts. Another sign of his exhaustion. He knew from experience that his mind liked to wander whenever it was overworked, drifting onto less stressful subjects.

He inclined his head in response, and the other man watched him carefully. "I am not doubting your abilities, but are you certain you would not rather sit this one out? The target _is_ a bit of a - "

"I'm perfectly fine, Lancelot, no need to fret so." Harry said, waving a hand in the air to dismiss his worries.

When Harry looked in the mirror, he saw a jaded boy intent on salvaging whatever was left of his soul. But to many others, like Lancelot, they all still saw him as - well, a 'kid' - a helpless little child playing grown up.

Their concern for him was appreciated, but stifling. They seemed to think him a fragile china doll, even though he'd gone into their fortress and single-handedly took them all out.

Lancelot didn't seem to be comforted, "This job, if you want out, you always have the option. Like Arthur said, you get to pick the missions, we're not like ..._them_. This mark's a pedophile, and I'd sooner - "

"Lancelot, I'm going to punch you in the throat if you finish that sentence." Harry growled, but the threat was flimsy, and the other man knew it, if the sudden wide smile was anything to go by.

"Whatever you say, kid."

_"Hold still, kid, this won't hurt a bit," the Russian doctor lied._

"I've told you this a million times already, Lancelot,do not call me that!" Harry hissed, his arms coming up to cross against his chest defensively.

Lancelot laughed, and Harry wondered if the other man knew just how close to becoming a falsetto he was.

"Compared to me, you're a kid." Lancelot said, sinking down in his seat and hooking his leg over the other. "My son's about your age. You remind me alot of him. Smart as a whip, he is. You'd like him. The lad's only three years younger than you. Maybe one of these days, I'll introduce you two."

"I have no wish to meet your son. I doubt he'd want to meet me, either." Harry grumbled, and looked away to see just how far they had to go. Lancelot laughed again, probably because his _pouting_ reminded him of his damned son, too.

Bastard.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for the wait, guys. My boyfriend's family had an emergency, and we had to go to Peru for a bit. But now I'm back, and I've got my computer working again so I'm going to be cranking out those chapters in faster succession hopefully.

Note: The languages in this chapter other than English are all from Google Translate. Please let me know if I have anything wrong and I'll fix it.

xxxxx

The job was an easy one: Get in, seduce the billionaire, get him alone, interrogate him. Lancelot would be back up, in case anything went wrong. Easy as pi.

But...the best laid plans of mice and men, they say.

"Good evening, little dove," A smooth voice whispered into Harry's ear, like dried up molasses, thick and sticky and disgusting, not ten minutes after he strolled into the place. He was a beautiful boy, he knew that. He's used that to his advantage more times than he could count. This was going to be a cut and dry job. Now, he just needed to bear with the flirtations, and then he could get his job done and get it over with.

Harry plastered a shy smile on his face as he turned to his 'host', looking up through his lashes. Since he was still too young to drink, Harry had chosen to stay by the wall, acting every bit the fidgety and docile wallflower his cover was supposed to be.

"Good evening, Monsieur le Vicomte," Harry said, inclining his head respectfully, tacking on that heavy French accent and raising the octave of his voice a bit higher to imply a younger age.

The man circled him, the damned vulcher, dressed in the purest of whites. The irony was certainly not lost on Harry. The man was soft on the eyes, that was for sure, and would have had no problem getting the ladies into bed if it weren't for his 'preferences'.

Preferences, being young, pretty, virgin boys.

Whilst Harry was certainly no virgin, the Viscount he was seducing didn't have to know that. Throw the line out there, and watch the fool latch onto the bait.

"May I ask what you are doing all by yourself, little dove, when you should be enjoying this delightful soiree. Surely one as pretty as you would have at least one dance partner."

Harry blushed, ducking his head and averting his eyes. "You are much too kind, monsieur. I - I do not know how to dance. My maman has scolded me many times because I prefer to read instead of attending social gatherings."

The man hummed in reply, sidling closer and, uncaring of the multitude of witnesses around this large hall, touched a finger to Harry's chin, lifted it up so that they were staring into each other's eyes. How grotesquely intimate, Harry thought with a repressed scoff. "Hence, your reason for being here all alone, and also why you are trying your hardest to become one with the wall."

Harry worried on his lower lip, then darted his tongue out to lick away the indentation caused by his front teeth. As expected, the vicomte's brown irises all but disappeared, eclipsed by the dilation of his pupils as he followed the trail of that pink and wet tongue.

"If you would like, my lovely, I could teach you," The man said quietly, lowering his mouth to Harry's ear. "A _private_ lesson..."

His breath brushed the nape of Harry's neck. Harry allowed himself the reflexive shiver, disgusted, knowing the pervert would take it as the opposite; a sign of encouragement.

"Te - Teach me?" Harry asked, shyly. His hands fidgeted with the cuff of his right sleeve. "Monsieur le Vicomte, I do not think I am worthy of your time. Surely, there is another person here you could dance with. Someone much more...experienced?"

The man shushed him, placing his thumb against Harry's bottom lip and stroking the plump object with a care one graced on the finest jewels. "Hush, little one, you are more than perfect for my tutelage." His hand fell away, dropped down to the boy's side and took ahold of Harry's hand.

"Come," the Vicomte said, tugging the boy once. "I'll bring you to a more private location, so you would have the space to spread your wings, my little dove."

The pedophile certainly wanted Harry to spread something...and it was definitely not his wings.

Harry worried on his lip again, eyes shifting to show his indecision. Just as the vicomte looked like he was going to try and convince him again, Harry relented.

Let's reel this pedophiliac fish in now, shall we?

As the man led him through the crowd of socialites, Harry had to bite back on the urge to shoot everyone of these assholes in the face. They all saw what this damned lecher was doing, and not a single one of them was doing anything to stop it! Not that he wanted, or needed, them to.

Still...this world was filled with such disgusting people.

The man pulled him through the throng of partiers, up a set of stairs, and down the hallway where the residential wing was located.

Safely ensconced in the privacy of the Viscount's master suite, the pedophile let Harry linger in the middle of the room while he went and poured some refreshments for the two of them.

Harry looked down curiously at the glass the man had pushed into his hand, "I'm too young, monsieur. I don't - "

"Nonsense. A touch of firewater is good for growing boys. Puts hair on your chest and all that. And a sixty year old scotch is liquid gold. Try some. It's so good, you will shit." The man said, taking a sip from his own glass.

Harry could hear Merlin and Lancelot snickering through his comm at the mark's misuse of the slang.

Well, it would be a sin to waste such a fine year, so Harry raised the tumbler to his nose and waved it in the air, savoring the spicy aroma that drifted forwards. "Mm...you are quite right, monsieur." Harry said, each word progressing back to his normal accent, the proverbial mask fading away like breath on a mirror.

He raised the glass and took a sip, swirling it around in his mouth expertly. The alcohol burned as it went down, and Harry didn't hesitate to down the rest with a practiced gulp. Wonderful, just like the Viscount had promised.

"Damn good scotch, old boy." Harry said, toasting the man with the empty glass as the alcohol pooled comforting warmth in his stomach.

The Viscount was smarter than Harry gave him credit for, catching on the moment Harry's voice and demeanor changed. Harry smiled as he watched the confidence slide off the Viscount's face like water off a duck's back. He backed away in alarm, the cup in his hand dropping carelessly to the floor, and Harry had to cringe at the loss of such fine liquor, soaked up by the expensive Persian rug.

As Harry calmly walked forwards, the other man stumbled back and back until he hit the dresser along the wall; a frightened deer being stalked by the hungry lion.

Harry tutted at him, the glass held casually by the rim at his side, "Now now, none of that, my dear. You did say you wanted to teach me how to dance, did you not?"

The man's breath pumped in and out in quick succession, eyes wide as he gripped the dresser behind him, cornered prey. But other than that, Harry could tell that he was far from worried. Best not have him thinking that for long...

"Qui etes-vous?" (Who are you?) He demanded.

"Je ne suis pas une," (I am no one.) Harry said, the knife slipping out of his sleeve, slinking up to the man with all the grace of a panther. "Personne ne vous vous souviendrez pendant longtemps." (No one you will remember for long.)

When Harry got within inches of him, the Viscount started sliding to the right, and Harry easily followed him with his calm gait.

"I won't tell you anything. They'll do more to me than anything you could even hope to dream of."

Ahhh...The 'they' that the Viscount was speaking of. That's what Harry needed to know about.

The empty crystal tumbler, Harry placed onto the wood top of the dresser. The Viscount was slowly moving to the window now, his hands fisted at his sides, and Harry had to give the man some credit. Even now, he was still not sobbing and begging. He'd expected more desperation and tears from the man. Tears he could lap up with his tongue and savor like a fine aged wine.

"Are you so sure of that, Monsieur le Vicomte?" Harry said with a small smirk, following the man step for step, inch for inch. They were at the window now, the two facing each other as the moon shone down on them from the large bay window; the two main characters spotlighted in this little farce.

In the corner of Harry's right eye, he could faintly make out Lancelot's figure hiding outside.

He raised the knife and played with the sharp tip, letting the moon's light glint off of the cold steel. "You haven't even given me the privilege of the first dance, yet. May want to wait until - "

"They have my family! There's nothing you can do..." The Viscount said, raised his left hand, and Harry caught the flash of metallic green in his grip at the same time that Lancelot's alarmed yell _"HE'S GOT A GRENADE!"_ broke through the comm silence. "...that'll make me give them up."

The man pulled the hairpin, and Harry cursed once before jerking forwards to try and grip the handle down, keep the bomb from exploding.

Before he could do anything though, the window crashed inwards in a shower of glass, and he was shoved away, sending him to the floor.

Harry barely had time to cover his head before the grenade exploded, the sound deafening, and he waited for the fireball to eat him alive.

But nothing came. His ears rang, and he'd probably have hearing problems for a week or so. But that was the least of his worries. He coughed as the acrid smoke filled the room, and sat up on shaky limbs, the room tilting on its axis as his vertigo righted itself.

He waved a hand in the air, coughing against the smoke, and felt his heart freeze when he caught sight of the two scorched bodies lying a few feet away from him. And now that the shock of the blast has subsided, Harry could pick out the distinct and sickeningly familiar smell of burned flesh.

_Papa...fire...pain...smoke...MAMA, PAPA, WHERE ARE YOU!?_

Oh God. Oh God. What has he done?! He missed the grenade! How could he have missed the grenade!?

"GALAHAD! RESPOND!"

"GALAHAD!" Merlin's voice was but a distant whisper, even though it was literally right in his ear. "Galahad, if you can hear me, get to the evac zone NOW!"

But...But Lancelot. Lancelot was...

He was vaguely aware of his entire body trembling like a leaf, his hands shaking so hard he could barely work them enough to push himself into a stand. His legs felt like jelly, but he forced himself to take one step...two...then three, until he got to the smoking carcasses.

Unsteady hands reached down and forwards, hovering over his partner's slack face. His vision was blurring, eyes burning for a reason other than the smoke.

"Lancelot?" _Papa!?_

No response.

_PAPA, WAKE UP!_

"Galahad, please listen to me. It's Merlin, focus on my voice."

Harry blinked, mind reeling. Merlin?

A stoic face, with the barest hints of a smile tugging at those lips as the man saw Harry off for his mission. _"Be safe, Galahad."_

Merlin...

"Get out of there now!"

His body was moving on automatic before his mind could even switch from the all encompassing horror of what had just happened, to GET-THE-FUCK-OUT-OF-THERE mode. Harry was out the window, away from the manor, back to the evac zone. It wasn't until he was in the helicopter and he caught the pilot's look of sympathy, that the situation really sunk in.

He barely made it to the door of the helicopter in time before he threw up the contents of his stomach


	5. Chapter 5

Hello again!

Thanks for all the awesome reviews, guys, you really don't know how much your love means to me!

Now, as you read, look for little similarities between each chapter. This is done on purpose to highlight the different people's relationships with Harry, and the juxtaposition between each of them.

This chapter, I am kind of iffy about. I wanted to get other perspectives in there, get the ball rolling, ya know. It seems a bit rushed to me, and I'm not completely satisfied with it, so let me know what you guys think. If you guys have any suggestions or comments about this chapter or any chapter or any ideas about what you want to see too, let me know and I'll see what I can do.

xxxxxxx

Merlin was a man of many skills, hence the honor of being named after one of the greatest wizards known to mankind...fictional or otherwise.

He was a licensed MD, could practice legally if he so wanted to. Graduated from MIT at the age of 18, and could fix up machines as easily as Tony Stark boasted. He could do anything and everything he set his mind to, and Merlin was damn proud of that.

But with the ability to do anything and everything he set his mind to, came the lack of certain aspects normal people, not working for some secretly funded organization, would take for granted.

Things such as ... feelings. And how to deal with said feelings.

Now, don't get it wrong, Merlin wasn't a stranger to such things. There was a difference between not being able to feel, and not giving a damn about them.

He grew up in a household where his single father worked three jobs to take care of his four kids. Went to work, came back home, paid the bills, ate, slept, and made sure to raise his kids to become successful people. Anything else was not necessary. Distractions.

And Merlin never found that he missed these unnecessary feelings and wants that came so easily to other people. He was the overseer of all the Kingsmen's visual feeds, he's seen it ALL. Hatred, betrayal, jealousy, you name it.

Again, what was the purpose? What was so important about envy? Jealousy? If it never belonged to you in the first place, then why mourn for it? Hatred? Why hate? Would that better one's self through hatred? Why not just cut that aspect out of your life like a cancerous tumor and be done with it?

No...Merlin would rather spend his time focusing on more important things. Build himself up mentally, just as he does physically.

'Live every minute with happiness and pride in everything you do, and you'll never have to worry about anything else.' That's what his old man used to say to him.

And it's worked so far.

But then along came this _little brat _named Harry Hart, dropped down literally into Merlin's life with chaos in his wake. Uprooted everything that Merlin's worked for.

First, it was physically; like his security systems. How the hell did that damn kid get around his defensive mechanisms and into their headquarters so easily!? It was because of this _kid_...this thirteen year old _kid_...that made the KINGSMAN - the most elite group of agents in Britain - move their headquarters all the way to some nondescript mansion in the countryside.

Because of this _kid_, a new rule was implemented: Under no circumstances are all the Kingsman to be in one location all at the same time. Hence, video conferencing with their glasses for all meetings that required all of the Kingsman to be present.

Then, it was mentally and figuratively.

It was the first time Merlin's ever understood the term 'shocked speechless'. And little did he know, Merlin would come to understand quite well just how important and uncontrollable emotions were once he was faced with something that he wanted-_ craved for_ \- above all else.

That, being...

Harry Hart. A walking, breathing, living contradiction wrapped in an enigma.

The boy felt emotions more strongly than anybody else Merlin's ever met, and yet he could mask his feelings as easily as if his face had a built in default setting (which is usually apathetic and snarky as all hell). He could easily overcome his baser instincts and persevere, a trait that anyone would find admirable.

Unlike Merlin, who just didn't give a shit about anything that didn't have a purpose to his work or wellbeing, preferred to stay away from such stressors, and therefore didn't require such a control over his emotions.

This beautiful boy, with the face of an angel, and the rage of a demon straight out of Hell.

Harry, who had all the innocence of a child, but the jaded life and intelligence of someone three times his age. And never has Merlin seen such a perfect example of this as when he watched one of Harry's first few assignments. Sent to investigate the disappearance of a high profile terrorist, the young Kingsman found the mark working in a candy store in Kansas of all places! He watched as Harry strode up to the register, jumped over the wooden divider, knocked the guy out with one swift kick, and then called in the success of his mission to Merlin. On the boy's way out of the store, Merlin almost missed Galahad pocketing the KitKat Bar if he hadn't been watching so closely.

Harry and his sweet tooth.

If Merlin thought about it - and boy did he think about it during the nights, during the days, during anytime he had a free moment to himself - it was probably _that very second _when Merlin's feelings towards this little brat named Harry Hart, turned from friendly and companionable, to something a little more...confusing.

Those feelings had been building up, Merlin knew, ever since that day he first saw the boy, as wrathful as the devil himself, allow himself to trust one last time - to _hope_ one last time - in Chester King and, along with him, all the Kingsman. That trust was an honor and a responsibility that Merlin felt both terrified and humbled by.

In the beginning, the boy had snapped and growled at any friendly face turned his way. He preferred to be by himself, which was understandable, seeing as how the 'secret weapon' had been left more or less to his own company, other than his captors', for almost a decade.

But as time went on, with immense patience and an approach akin to one used on an abused dog, Galahad started to warm up to them. Startingly, to Merlin the most!

Perhaps it was one lone wolf subconsciously gravitating towards another lone wolf. For whichever reason, Merlin didn't much care. He enjoyed the company, could feel his own rarely-needed ache for a connection with someone other than his computers, reaching forwards for the wounded and broken boy.

And so began their little chats and their little games. Who knew Merlin had such a mischievous and sassy streak to his personality until it was brought out by that fourteen year old boy?

The maelstrom of admiration, awe, amusement, respect, and fond exasperation was brewing more and more with each smug smirk that Harry threw Merlin's way, with each snarky comment of Merlin's early onset of hair loss, with each timid blush when Arthur or Merlin slapped a hand on the boy's shoulder and praised him on his good work.

Harry brought out the best in Merlin, but by virtue of Newton's third law of motion - for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction - he would also bring out the worst.

He knew it would, and yet, Merlin couldn't halt his growing attachment to the boy. His more than friendly feelings were a bad idea, if only for the fact that it was illegal. Merlin's double Harry's age at 29 years old. He was old enough to be the boy's father, for Christ's sakes! This addiction, this want, this _need_ for a crazy, almost psychopathic fourteen year old named Harry Hart, was something much like a train headed at high speed towards an immovable wall...and Merlin didn't know whether to hang on for dear life or jump off.

Logic would have him do the latter, and all of Merlin's life, he's done exactly that; jump off before anything could effect the stability he's created for his little humdrum world on the other side of those glasses. And every time Merlin had some capacity to think coherently after his encounters with Harry, he would promise himself that he'd do just that: force his feelings away, banish them into the abyss so that nothing would distract him ever again with these idiotic and useless notions of ...urgh... _love_.

But then that blasted demon child that was the youngest member of the Kingsman, would scare Merlin half to death by showing up in his lab as quiet as a damned ghost, then simply sit there, watching Merlin work with curious eyes (but carefully hidden under a mask of apathy and boredom, of course, because God forbid the boy ever show an ounce of emotion like a normal teenager), keeping the usually lone man company with his silent presence.

Or keep Merlin on his toes by constantly shoving him into increasingly crazy and unexpected situations that left him usually seesaw-ing between pissed the fuck off and laughing so hard he'd wet his pants. The most embarrassing, being when Harry stole all of Merlin's clothes while the unsuspecting man took a shower in the gym's locker room. He'd had to go through three levels, suspiciously filled to the brink with aides and Kingsmen and interns, back to his room buck naked and dripping wet (the fucking brat had taken all the towels too).

Chaotic, that's what Harry's made of Merlin's usually well-ordered world...and, blast it, he's never felt more alive in his life. It was during these moments that he decided maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to stay on the train, see where it led.

Even if it promised to end in disaster.

"You all right there, lad?" Merlin grunted into the microphone, one eye on the visual feed and the other on the young agent's bio-readings. Galahad's vitals were spiking; respiration increased, heartrate and pulse picking up for a few seconds before all of it was forcibly stabilized when the boy clamped back down on his rampant emotions.

"Yes, Merlin..." Galahad breathed out, the images swirling into a blur of color and light as Galahad pushed open his door and stepped out of the town car.

"If you want to pull out, now's the time, mouse," Merlin said.

Galahad scoffed. "I've faced down and beat ten black belts three times my size before..._all at the same time_. I'm sure I can handle something as mundane and trivial as this."

Merlin eyed the vitals displayed on the screen located to the right of the main visual feed, saw that the boy's heart rate was rising again in a sure sign of stress. "Yeah, whatever you say, Galahad."

"Hush, Merlin," Galahad chided, the boy now moving up the stairs of the little white picket fence house located in stereotypical suburbia. "Don't forget the last time you called my ability to overcome any situation into question."

How could Merlin forget? He could still feel the stickiness from the mixture of Elmer's Glue and Super Glue that Harry had replaced Merlin's body lotion with...that bloody wanker!

And yet...

"Looking forward to it," Merlin chuckled into the mic, allowed himself a small playful smirk because he was the only one here and nobody would see it anyways.

Harry's responding chuckle was well worth whatever Hell the boy would raise later at Merlin's expense. The boy stopped in front of the wooden door. A Christmas wreath decorated the beige slab that served as the entrance and exit to the Unwin household.

Galahad raised a fisted hand into the air, hesitating for a millisecond before rapping his knuckles against the door three times in quick succession.

A few seconds later, a woman's voice rang out through the sensitive mic in Harry's glasses, and into the audio connection on Merlin's side, "Just a moment!" and then quieter, "Eggsy, for God's sakes, how many times have I told you to put away your skateboard? I almost broke my neck just now."

"I'm going to cut you off for now, Merlin. Probably won't resume connection until I get back to HQ. Let's give the woman some privacy, ja?" Galahad said.

"I'll see you on the other side then, little mouse," Merlin responded. A sign off he'd started during Galahad's first mission as a Kingsman, and one that Merlin didn't think he'd stop using in the near future.

The boy sighed loudly through the connection, though his next words were quiet and meant only for Merlin's ears. "How many times have I told you to not call me that?"

"Why should I stop?" Merlin asked, voice light with playful mockery. "A mouse is quite fitting a name for you, always scurrying around in the vents and around my booby traps to get to the cheese."

"That was only _one time_, and it was when you first met me!" Galahad hissed in a low whisper.

"Plus...mice are pests. And you, m'lad, are - "

"If you finish that sentence, Merlin, so help me God I will - " The door was pulled open to reveal a frazzled, blonde, middle aged smiling woman, and Galahad had to immediately cut off lest the first thing she be greeted with was _I will shove a mouse so far down your throat you'll sound like Scottish Mickey Mouse every time you talk._

Merlin threw his head back and laughed, even as Galahad snatched his glasses off and switched off the connection. The screens blacked out, and Merlin continued laughing to himself, shaking his head fondly as he stood up and started preparing a mental list of all the things he'd need to watch out for and lock up.

He expected the retribution for this latest banter to be both embarrassing and uncomfortable, so he'd best stay on alert for the next two weeks. He's been successful a few times in eluding Galahad's pranks, but more often than not, he was left proverbially tar and feathered to the amusement of the devil child.

Instead of annoyed, though surprisingly, Merlin felt...excited. Eager to see where their little game would take them this time. It wasn't often Merlin had somebody able to keep up with him intellectually _and_ also willing to challenge him; shake up the little snowglobe that was Merlin's routine and organized world.

Harry Hart destroyed everything Merlin's built up, and yet...he's never felt so whole in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

OMG, you guys...I love all of you so darn much! Your comments make my day! I fist pump the air everytime I get that little email in my inbox telling me I have a review.

Well...we've just seen Merlin and Harry, let's see about Eggsy and Harry, yeah?

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Gary 'Eggsy' Unwin was 11 when his whole world was destroyed...torn out from under his feet and reformed into a colder, lonelier existence. It wasn't until later that night, when Eggsy laid in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling of his room, that it finally sunk in.

His father was dead. Four words that were so indifferent he might as well have been talking about the weather. And yet, because of those four words, his mother's sobs still rang in his ears even now, desperate and broken, _"He's gone, Eggsy! He's gone!"_

He wondered, if he closed his eyes, if he could just pretend that his dad was still there, sitting on the edge of his bed, gravelly voice pitched into different tones to resemble different characters in the childrens' books he used to read to his little Eggsy to get him to sleep.

At the age of eleven, Eggsy had been eager to be rid of childish things such as bedtime stories, and had told his dad that he was too old for such things when he was nine. Oh, what he wouldn't give to get some of that time back. He could close his eyes now, slip them shut, wade back into the calm stream of his memories, relive those days when his father was alive and smiling and happy, and Eggsy's life was orderly...blissfully routine in a way that only childhood innocence could achieve.

But when he did shut his eyes, his traitorous mind kept bringing him back to that moment...that moment when everything changed...that moment when order turned into chaos.

In the surge of those minutes that led up to 'that moment', Eggsy had no idea the impact on his life that those three knocks on his front door would herald.

Neither had his mother, from what Eggsy had seen. She'd been going about her daily routine, making dinner when the raps upon the wood sounded. She emerged from the kitchen in a flurry of quiet cursing and quick feet, untying her apron as she shouted, "Just a moment!" to whoever it was calling on them at this time of night. It was probably because of this unusual occurrence that she didn't see the skateboard until her foot had already caught the underside of it.

Eggsy had cringed, hunching in on himself as he expected the inevitable fall, but breathed out in relief when she caught herself in time with a hand on the side table.

"Eggsy, for God's sakes, how many times have I told you to put away your skateboard? I almost broke my neck just now," she hissed at him, bunched up the kitchen apron and threw it onto the side table that had literally saved her neck just then. In the mirror that hung over the surface, she quickly checked her appearance, smoothing a hand over her hair and dress, bared her teeth at her reflection to find any lipstick stains or greens caught in there.

Apparently satisfied, she twisted around and pulled open the door, slightly breathless but with a polite smile.

Eggsy craned his neck from his position on the living room floor to see who it was, but his mum's body and the doorway blocked the view. "Hello..." A question, more than a greeting.

"Good evening, Mrs. Unwin. My name is Colin, and I am a friend of your husband's. May I come in?"

Eggsy's brows knit together, immediately on alert when he heard the voice of a teenager respond to his mother. Was it one of the punks from school coming around trying to start trouble? It would be highly unlikely if it was, seeing as how this neighborhood was pretty well off, and _those types_ usually hung around on the other side of the proverbial train tracks.

In addition, this boy with the slightly cracking voice, which showed he was going through the changes that puberty usually wrought, was well-spoken, no traces of any cockney accents which one usually associated with the lower/middle class.

Posh; that's what came to mind, with a hint of an accent that Eggsy couldn't place, but was one that his father had also. When Eggsy had asked his father about it in his more curious days as a toddler, his dad had told him that it was because he spoke many languages, and so his voice naturally had different accents that sometimes slipped in without his notice.

Eggsy's mother stepped out of the way, allowed this curious individual to cross the threshold and into their little sanctuary. The first thing that Eggsy noticed, was the well-tailored suit that was draped over the teenager's stiff form. Gangly from youth and stilted with politeness, but with the obvious stance of one that held a hidden strength in his limbs, the boy that stood in the middle of their hallway had slicked back brown hair, a chiseled jawline, and observant, clinical caramel eyes that darted around their house like Eggsy's father always did whenever stepping into anyplace new.

"I'm Michelle Unwin, but I think you already know that," his mum said with a tight smile as she closed the door behind the boy, all forced nonchalance and civility. "Please sit."

Eggsy followed the stranger with his eyes, and twisted his neck around to do so as this _Colin_ moved through their front room, nodded to Eggsy in greeting which he did not return, and sat in the seat that his mum directed him to.

She took her spot in the chair next to him, cautious and wrong-footed. "Umm, would you...uh...like something to drink? Some tea, juice?"

The boy's lips upturned into a small smile, thin and frail as it was. "No thank you, ma'am, I'm fine."

For lack of a better thing to say, Eggsy's mum simply mumbled an 'Oh', then glanced quickly at her lap before focusing back on the stranger.

"You say you know my husband?"

Something flashed ever so quickly across Colin's features, a twitch in the muscle of the boy's jaw, but it disappeared as fast as it came, leaving only cool indifference in its wake. How robotic, Eggsy thought to himself as he watched Colin confirm the woman's question.

"Mrs Unwin, I know the situation right now seems strange and confusing, but I can tell that you have a feeling you know what I'm here for."

"Well, the choices right now are in between you being his secret love child, and you telling me about his ..." His mum cut off quite abruptly, jaw working silently as she blinked away something from her eyes before she continued. "You act very much like him when he comes back from his missions with his squad, you know. The look in your eyes, it's the same one he has. And the way you talk. Everything."

Her brows knit together, lips thinning as she failed to hold back the tears that started to gather. Colin produced a handkerchief to hand to the increasingly distraught woman, which his mum accepted with a wet 'thank you'.

"I am afraid, Mrs. Unwin, your husband has been deemed KIA."

For a moment, there was complete silence as Eggsy and his mum both stared at this Colin boy.

_K.I.A._ He's heard that term before. He's watched tons of movies with his dad, and he's certain he's heard those letters before. His mum would usually scold them whenever she caught them watching something too violent, but then his dad would just say that it's fine and his mum would huff and relent with a kiss on the cheek. Did Colin mean what Eggsy was thinking it meant!?

"He is a hero, an honorable man, one that - "

Her shout cut through his uncomfortably calm and professional tones. "How!? How did it happen!? _WHO ARE YOU?_ "

Eggsy tensed. He's never seen his mum cry before, not even when his nan had died, but she was certainly doing so now. Red eyes, fat wet tears trailing down splotchy cheeks.

"I am not authorized to say, ma'am, I apologize." So prim, so proper, doling out such upsetting news.

His mum was sobbing into her hands now, and Eggsy wanted to go over there and console her...but he didn't. His mind just couldn't absorb the gravity of the situation, couldn't will his body to move, couldn't open his mouth and demand answers from this strange character named Colin.

His whole body stayed uselessly rooted on that carpet floor, staring at the scene laid out before him. As if noticing the intense gaze, Colin turned his head, dark eyes locking onto him for a moment before turning back to Eggsy's mum. A shiver passed through Eggsy's body, like the abrupt chill of an icy droplet of water dripping down one's back, or the moment when one finally came out of the cold and back into the warmth.

"I very much regret that your husband's bravery can't be publicly celebrated. I hope you understand." A weak request, but the 'regret' was certainly sincere, Eggsy could tell. He had a thing about reading people, his dad taught him that. Look for signs on their faces, he always said. The tiniest things will give them away. And this Colin, this strange boy who looked like he wasn't much older than Eggsy himself, was genuinely upset about his dad's death.

"How can I understand if you won't tell me anything?" she wailed, the handkerchief almost soaked through with her grief. "I didn't even know he was away with his squad."

The boy reached into his inner pocket, took out a small medal, shiny and golden and new.

"I would like to present you with this medal of valor. If you look closely on the back, there's a number." He flipped the shiny trinket around, pointed to what was supposedly 'the number'. "And as a more concrete gesture of our gratitude, we'd like to offer you a...well...let's call it a favor."

Colin's eyes darted, ever so quickly, to Eggsy, as if making sure he was listening. And if Eggsy hadn't been staring so intently at the other boy, he would have missed it. "The nature of it, is your choice. Just tell the operator, 'Oxfords, not brogue's.' and then I'll know it's you."

Eggsy's mum shoved Colin's hand away, "I don't want your help!" she cried. "I want my husband back!" Dissolved into a pile of tears again, Colin watched the woman with an unfathomable look in his eyes,

The boy stood up, gaze searching for Eggsy's again, and once they locked on, Eggsy couldn't look away. The darkness that swirled through those brown orbs was like a tide pool, and Eggsy was caught in its current, diving deeper and deeper into its endless depths.

They came closer and closer until Colin could crouch next to Eggsy. "Hello," he said. "I'm Colin. What's your name?"

"I'm - " Eggsy cleared his throat when his voice cracked, tried again. "I'm Eggsy."

"Hello, Eggsy," Colin said with a small smile, a twinkle in those dark eyes. He reached forwards and scooped up Eggsy's right hand from where it was pressed to the floor. The medal that Colin pressed into his palm, was warm from the other boy's body heat.

"You take care of this, Eggsy." Colin pushed Eggsy's fingers closed into a fist, the medal trapped in the middle. Colin turned his eyes back to Eggsy's mum, and Eggsy followed his gaze to where the woman was now bent over in her chair, shoulders shaking with uncontrollable, silent sobs. "And take care of your mum too."

And with another pat to Eggsy's hand, Colin was gone, leaving Eggsy's mum to her world-shattering sorrow, Eggsy to his confusion, and the last piece of his father in his palm.


	7. Chapter 7

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"Galahad?"

...

"Galahad?"

Harry blinked, turned his attention away from the window and back on the man behind the desk.

"I'm sorry, doctor, did you say something?"

"Where were you just now?" Doctor McKenna asked, always polite and ever so kind, wrapped his hands together and placed them on the table top to show his patient he was giving him his full attention.

Harry breathed in as he considered his therapist's question. Where did he go? The doctor didn't mean in the literal sense, he never did, being a follower of an abstract science such as psychiatry.

"My mind is a maze of blood and screams, filled with the locked and bolted rooms of my memories. Its walls are fortified by my will to survive, to remain...sane," Harry said, smiled with a little too much teeth. "It is darkened by death's shadow, and you wish to have a picnic in there?"

Perhaps it was a petulant child's attempt at pulling away from the doctor's helping hand by trying to scare the man, a temperament he's been feeling less and less often now when it came to the Kingsmen. But when Arthur had pulled him into his office and told him that he's been assigned a psychiatrist so that he could talk to somebody who was a neutral party, an objective mind, Harry had felt that irritation building up again.

He didn't need a psychiatrist. His sanity is in place, he's functional as an agent, he's not BROKEN!

"But not all the rooms in that maze are dark, Galahad," Doctor McKenna said. "You are just too used to the night, to see the day. To accept that you are _capable_ of seeing it."

Harry barely held back his scoff, turned back to look out the window. A group of recruits, the new elects for Lancelot's position, ran past, their dogs bouncing after them. Harry's jaw clenched so hard his teeth grated against each other, snapped his gaze away and focused it on something else, forced his anger to go down as a stream of images filtered before him.

_The smug smirk on Lancelot's face. The almost paternal, fond glint in the man's eye when he thought Harry wasn't looking. The proud grin as he spoke of his son. _

_The charred remains of that man, a father, an agent, a loyal and courageous soul. Reduced to nothing but a burnt body._

"Let's talk about Gary Unwin."

To be honest, Harry didn't expect that.

"Why?" Harry asked, careful to keep his tone level.

"Gary 'Eggsy' Unwin, the former Lancelot's son," the doctor said, and damn if Harry didn't want to storm out this room right now.

"What do you see when you look at him?" Dr. McKenna leaned forwards, professional curiosity piqued.

Harry considered not answering, if not for the fact that he was curious himself. What _did_ he see when he looked at Eggsy? What was it that drove him to go back over and over again to watch him like a creepy stalker?

Out the window, the prospects for Lancelot's position came around for another lap.

"I see...his father."

And oh wasn't it becoming clearer and clearer now, the picture sweeping into focus.

"I see the potential and pride that his father saw every time he looked at his son. I see the future that he wanted for his son." Harry swallowed, frowned as he realized the impact of his words as he said them.

"Gary Unwin's father saved your life, and in doing so, gave up his own. Gave up the future that he would be providing for his son, gave up the responsibility of watching over him like a parent should." The doctor paused as he studied Harry. "Understanding this, it is normal to have certain emotional obligations, regardless of the lack of empathy you strive to attain."

"I feel...responsible for that boy's life," Harry said, a mere whisper as the weight of this revelation dropped on him like a four ton boulder. The thought startled a laugh out of him, a sharp bark of self-deprecation. "Have I taken Lancelot's place as father-figure, doctor? Is that what you're implying?"

"No, but you have taken up the mantle of watching over Gary Unwin in your own way. In the darkness of your mind, you have made a place for him," Doctor McKenna said. "He is the day that drives away the night, a symbol of the innocence you thought long lost."

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Eggsy threw his backpack off his shoulder and onto the desk a little harder than was necessary, ignored the startled recoil from the girl that sat next to him in maths, slumped into his seat with a huff. While the teacher began class, Eggsy's mind drifted, his arms thrown over his chest in a show of childish petulance.

He glared out the window to the street beyond, examining the parked cars that lined the sidewalk, the houses on the opposite block, the decorative trees and bushes that bordered them. He couldn't see him, but he could _feel_ him. He was being watched, Eggsy knew._ Has _been watched since the day that strange boy Colin came to his house and completely destroyed Eggsy's world with a few short sentences.

Eggsy didn't notice it that night, nor the day or night after that. But then Eggsy was being tugged along by his wrist down the street by his mum a few days after, off to the orientation for Eggsy's new school, and that's when he felt it.

Somebody was watching him.

His dad's always taught him to beware of strangers. Beware of stalkers who'll follow Eggsy back to his house to see where he lived and all. So Eggsy _knew_ the moment the hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle, his skin itching with that innate sense of being followed and watched.

His stalker wasn't always there, no. Eggsy would sometimes go days without that sixth sense perking up. And it wasn't always during school times too. Sometimes Eggsy would be out with his mates, messing around in the empty parking lots, and his 'spidey senses' would start tingling. Or with his mum at the bank and such, and those eyes'll be back on him.

But no matter how hard he tried, inspecting the environment around him, the people around him, veering off into side streets to see whether that feeling would follow...he just could not shake them, could not figure out where or who they were. And he could _never_ repress that shiver up his spine every time he felt the presence of his silent observer.

And after two months of this, Eggsy was starting to get, quite understandably he was certain, _pissed the fuck off!_

That bastard could at least show himself - and he knew just who it was too because that shiver that always got him every time those eyes locked onto his back, was the same one that had wracked his body the first time he ever met him. _Him,_ being that strange boy Colin.

The feeling of being watched, disappeared as if it had never even been there in the first place, a ghost's touch, and Eggsy perked up immediately, taking in everything outside those windows to see if anything had changed, if any of the bushes moved or a tree limb had so much as twitched. It was like playing a twisted game of 'Spot The Difference'.

Nothing! Eggsy threw his head back and groaned, slammed his face into his hands as if that could block out the frustration.

"Gary Unwin, is my teaching style boring you, perchance?"

And _now_ he's in trouble with his teacher. FUCK! What does this Colin _want_!? Was he just being an asshole and trying to screw up Eggsy's life even more than he already has!?

Eggsy's bag was already packed, following the second hand on the clock face with hawk-like attentiveness, and was out the door the moment the bell rang, signaling the end of school. And not a moment too soon, Eggsy grumbled to himself as he pushed through the crowd of students in the hallways, and after a few minutes of shoving and maneuvering, was outside, breathing in the fresh air.

He just wanted to go home, get away from that feeling of eyes on him - which came back the _moment_ he stepped outside the doors of his school! - and just get this day over with.

Eggsy strode down the street, angry words mumbled under his breath trailed in his wake, studiously ignoring the bastard that was watching him from wherever the fuck he was.

He was tired, hungry, irritated, he'd gotten into an argument with his maths teacher, which meant that he'd been sent home with a note tacked to his backpack for his mum, he didn't even pay attention for the rest of the day and had no idea what his homework was -

Eggsy jumped a foot into the air at the sudden blare of a truck's horn, momentarily paralyzed in a deer-caught-in-the-headlights instinctive reaction, and then his face promptly made friends with the concrete floor as something hard slammed into him, knocking the breath right out of his lungs with the impact.

Dazed, Eggsy could only lay there, face down, a body pressed onto his back (which he didn't seem to really notice just yet because he was still too damn shocked to really think about anything other than _holy fuck I'm going to die!_), wondering why he wasn't a pile of blood and goo and shattered bones on the side of the road right now.

"STUPID KIDS! WATCH WHERE YA GOIN'!"

There was the sound of screeching tires, and then the weight lifted off of him, hands pulling on his shoulders until he flipped himself onto his back. Blinded by the afternoon sun beaming down on him, Eggsy blinked against the light, allowed his savior to grab his hand and tug him up into a stand.

And then Eggsy found himself inches away from ... you guessed it! ... _Colin_.

The other boy's face was twisted into a look of extreme disapproval, all thinned lips and shaking heads, and for a moment, Eggsy felt as if Colin would start lecturing him about looking both ways before crossing the street. But with a final chastising shake of his head, eyes all but blaring _you idiot!_ at Eggsy, Colin tugged the dazed student towards the sidewalk and to relative safety, then turned and walked off down the block.

Eggsy had lain awake for nights thinking of what he'd say to Colin once he caught him in the act and got the chance to talk to him again. They varied from questions like, 'who are you' 'what do you want from me' to outright demanding answers from the enigma that was this strange boy.

But as of this moment, as Eggsy stood on the curb, body frozen with the sheer incredulity of the situation, his backpack all but crumbled from being tackled to the floor, watching as the boy who saved him from being run over by a truck walked away from him, the same boy that kept spying on him for reasons Eggsy couldn't fathom right now, all the words went out the proverbial window.

The boy crossed the street (made sure to put on a show of looking both ways first, the dramatic, smug arse), all but hopped back onto the opposite sidewalk with a bounce in his step, and Eggsy could just imagine the stupid smirk on Colin's face. A passing car blocked Eggsy's view for literally a second, and when the vehicle passed, Colin was gone...faded back into the environment like the damned chameleon he was.

He didn't know how long he stood there, eyes flickering over the trees, the buildings, the side streets, trying to figure out how the hell Colin pulled that Houdini act on him. Then Eggsy shrugged, decided to just let the boy have his secrets, and went on his way again.

And if he grinned like an idiot the whole walk back to his home, well, nobody knew but himself...and maybe his hidden guardian.


	8. Chapter 8

Today is the last episode of the amazing and beautiful show Hannibal. I am saddened immensely by its cancellation, and as a way to honor the show, I have written out a chapter, aptly, of Harry and his therapist (not a cannibal, by the way), utilizing the wonderful kinginspanx's suggestion that I put Harry's mindset to paper, that way everyone will understand what drives Harry and influences his actions.

I hope you all enjoy it, and a shoutout to anybody who recognizes the parts that I included from Hannibal.

"THIS IS THE CHILD OF A NIGHTMARE." — Dr. Frederick Chilton, _Hannibal_

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"How does it feel to be a year older, Harry?" the doctor asked with a playful grin.

He shrugged, "My age is of no import to me."

"May I ask why not? Children your age — "

"I am _not_ a child!" Harry snapped.

The doctor nodded in consent, appropriately chastised. "No, you are not. I apologize if I have offended you."

A pause, awkward and heavy with tension as Harry settled his hackles.

"And yet," the doctor's head tilted, as if examining a curious object. "when I look at you, Harry, I see a boy who was thrust into adulthood at far too young an age. I see a boy who went through Hell and back, and has no idea how to act in the real world because the Hellfire left him scarred in more ways than one."

Inferno, indeed.

"Hell, doctor. Does that mean Arthur is God…and that bastard, Lucifer?" Harry sneered.

"Lest we forget the lamb," the doctor responded.

"Am I the Lamb of God then, hm?" Harry narrowed his eyes at the man. "For the great day of His wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?"

"Revelation 6:17." The doctor considered Harry's face, the blank mask held up by an iron grip. And yet, no matter how hard Harry tried to hold onto his apathy, his distance, the man could see him as clearly as if his soul was laid bare on the table before them.

"Locked in a cage, your wrath is certainly a thing to behold," the doctor said, words quiet with piety and sympathy. "And locked in with it, are many other things too."

Harry breathed in deep, banished away the image of cracks in the concrete walls away, the darkness of his cell, the bone-shivering creak of metal bolts sliding open. He knew Doctor McKenna was referring to his lack of empathy, his distance and need to keep everyone at arm's length, his inability to accept anyone into his life without reservations.

"What purpose would it serve, doctor, to prance around like one my own age would? Offering up dalliances with no thought or consequence, friendships forming as easily as they break, emotions rampant from hormones. I, of all people, should know just how powerful emotions can be. Just how vulnerable one can become when friendships are formed."

Harry leaned forwards in his chair, met the doctor's all-too-knowing eyes with his own hard gaze. "Friendship did not save me from that Hell, doctor. _I_ did! _I saved myself_! And to do so, I shirked off everything that did not facilitate my survival. In the darkness of captivity, in that Hellfire, I was remolded, reborn. I am stronger without those hindrances that emotions entail, I am independent without a bond to keep me shackled. I stand on my own two feet, with my own strength, because nobody in this world can support me more than myself."

"And it is admirable," the doctor said with a nod. "But allowing another person to get closer, does not mean that you are any less strong. You have a good soul, an old soul it may be, but it is nonetheless good. You, Harry, have already formed these bonds even without you knowing it. Just look at what you do with Eggsy, just look at the change that you've wrought in Merlin, the proud smile on Arthur whenever you let down your walls enough to show your true self."

"You are part of the Kingsman now, Harry," the doctor said with a wave of his hand to the manor's grounds where Merlin was now putting all of the recruits into a series of pushups. "They are a team, as much as they are a family. And you are now part of that family. And from what I've seen, you're doing quite splendidly as the little brother."

Harry scoffed, sunk back into his seat, feeling unusually lighter. "Adaptation is a way of life. A necessity, more than a choice."

The doctor frowned, a quiet settling over them as the man no doubt dissected Harry's words, analyzing them.

"I want you to think back, Harry," Doctor McKenna said after a moment. "I want you to consider the two extremes in your life; The Kingsman's procedures, and the organization you were collared to. What differences do you see?"

Harry held back a sigh, but did as told. He closed his eyes, waded back into the stream of his memories, and one immediately came swimming into focus:

"_3145, get back to the rendezvous point, NOW!" The words, loud and grating in Harry's ear. _

"_Mission isn't a success yet, sir," he answered, breathless as he ran over the roof tops to get into another position. "I think I can have eyes on the — "_

"_You don't think! You can't think! You are a weapon! You do what I say, when I say it, do you understand!? GET BACK TO THE RENDEZVOUS POINT, 3145!"_

And then another memory blurred in through the edges:

"_Merlin, I have a bad feeling about this woman."_

"_What makes you say that, Galahad?"_

"_She didn't blink an eye the moment those shots went off. I think our target's a cover, and she's the mastermind."_

"_Go ahead, Galahad. I trust you."_

And then another.

_Harry watched from the monitors as the new recruits slept peacefully in their beds, unknowing of the water seeping up from the floor._

"_You forgot one crucial thing, ladies and gentleman," Merlin said, inclined his head towards the room where a prone body lay on the floor, the very picture of a drowned corpse. "Teamwork!"_

"An asset," the word slipping out like poison silk. "that's what I was." Harry blinked open his eyes, adjusting to the light … in more ways than one.

"Yes," the doctor said. "You were an asset to them. An object for their own purposes. What did you think of just now? What moment shone out the brightest?"

Harry considered the question. And after a moment, the answer came quite simply as, "Merlin."

The doctor smiled, and Harry almost felt as if he were a student again, giving the correct solution to a complicated math problem. "Arthur is the person that first showed you there was kindness still left in the world, that there were still good people out there. 'No one should live without knowing the warmth of a friendly touch', isn't that what he said to you the first time he saw you; a wounded creature in the street, crawled literally out of the hole that you'd been in, more fragile and yet stronger than before. He was the one that created that crack in your wall."

That day felt like another life, surreal and dreamlike. It was amazing that he had survived those endless weeks of withdrawal, let alone still able to function enough at the end to claw his way back to civilization.

"But Merlin was the one that broke through them, was he not?"

_Harry felt numb as he sat in the briefing room, ashamed by how out of control his mind was currently, cycling through shock and regret and then anger in a mad tandem. Arthur had long gone, pressed a hand to his shoulder and said in a quiet voice, "Get some sleep, son." before leaving him._

_But while Harry felt weighted by the events of the botched mission he'd just come back from, the forefront of his thoughts were solely taken up by confusion. Utterly, irrevocably stumped. His view of the world as he knew it, skewed and marred by the vision of one charred body._

_Lancelot had thrown himself onto a grenade for Harry. Lancelot, whom Harry had not even known in anyway more than a professional sense. Had barely spoken two words to the man voluntarily when not on a mission. _

_Why would that man, a father, a loving husband, a seasoned Kingsman, throw his life away so that Harry could live? Why did he care whether Harry lived or died? Why did Lancelot even care at all? He was a no one to that man, and Harry could safely say, if he'd been in Lancelot's place, he wouldn't have done the same. Harry was selfish, he admitted. He has fought much too long and hard to survive, to throw it away for another person. He lived for himself, and only himself. _

_This was why he could not form attachments. This was why he was alone. Why he preferred it that way._

_The door creaked open, but Harry barely noticed, his subconscious alerted enough to note that the newcomer was not a threat, and then settled back into dormancy again, allowing Harry's crisis to regain all the attention._

_Bleary eyes glared at the tabletop, ignored the man that slipped quietly into the seat next to him._

"_I'm going to just sit here, Galahad," Merlin said, his soft Scottish accent cutting through the chaos of Harry's thoughts. "And if you want to talk, then just go on and do it, and I'll be listening."_

_And true to his word, Merlin simply sat there with him, the two quietly staring off into the distance of their ruminations. _

"Merlin made you realize fully that you're not alone in this world. That you don't _have_ to be alone," Doctor McKenna said, leaning forwards in his chair to bore his gaze into his patient's, forced Harry to embrace the impact of this statement. The mirror behind the therapist shone Harry's reflection back to him. A duality of himself and the psyche, the motivations that the doctor was revealing to him.

"Do not simply adapt to survive, Harry," Doctor McKenna said. "Live."


	9. Chapter 9

Hey guys! So there is a Dark Knight Rises quote in here, if anybody can pick it out.

Shout out to kinginspanx and HanniGram for figuring out which quote from the last chapter. Great job, fellow Hannibal lovers! Still sad that it's ended, but what a way to go, right? Anyways...I hope you guys enjoy this new chapter.

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_The human body truly was amazing, adapting and learning to all sorts of things given the right amount of time and the right amount of inspiration. Evolution, Charles Darwin had called it. The ability to change in response to one's environment, was a trait that ensured survival. The faster one could adapt, the better they would survive. Those that couldn't...well...there was a word for that, too: extinction._

_While humans may not have changed much physically over the years to adapt to their environment, they certainly have been able to survive as top of the food chain without it. Perhaps it was because humans had the capacity to think, solve problems, overcome obstacles, using the smarts that they were given through genes, and through teachings passed on from generations and generations of their ancestors' mistakes and lessons learned. _

_And while humanity has certainly flourished, strengthening their dominance over planet Earth, the people in general have become weak from their assured position at the top of the food chain._

_Strength of character, dampened by the all-consuming need to make as much money as possible, be the most successful, no matter what the consequences._

_Strength of will, hindered by the ever-present and close proximity of all essentials needed to create a happy, blissfully ignorant life. _

_Ignorant to what horrors lay out there in the world, ignorant to the evils that man could be capable of. _

_Harry guessed that's what __**his**__ purpose was for then, to be the ones to sink his hands into the filth, so that the rest of the world could keep theirs clean. To survive in this harsh environment, the tasks set out for him which no normal child in a civilized society would usually be presented with, Harry had to adapt._

_He's changed so much in the years since that day, since that literal trial by fire. He'd been weak then, before The Man came to pluck him out of his ignorant existence and had thrust him into a world of darkness and agony._

_He's stronger now, both of character and of will. He could take on any obstacle and overcome, because Harry would settle for nothing less._

_Torture, though, was not something that one could overcome. It was something that one must adapt to in order to survive. It was not a matter of being desensitized to the act itself, no person could ever be taught to withstand torture. No, torture could not be overcome, but the control of one's self during those moments when the pain was all-consuming, when at death's door only to be pulled back again into the unending nightmare, that was what Harry would need to learn. _

_Constant exposure to torture would strengthen one's will until it became as strong as iron, prolong that moment when one's desperate mind gave out and decided to throw in the towel. Control, composure, to keep Harry's and all of his secrets buried deep, and his sanity close at hand._

_"You scream less now," the Russian doctor noted down on his clipboard. "Otlichno." (Very good)_

_He returned Asset HH-3145's file onto the steel table next to Harry's face, and if Harry hadn't just been injected with the latest chemical concoction mixed by the mad scientist for the past three hours, left almost panting with relief every time the serum's effects faded, vision and consciousness blurring at the edges, Harry would try and sneak a peak at what lay within that manila folder._

_But he was too tired, bones like jelly encased in an ocean of red hot agony, to think of anything other than a repetitive __**I will get through this I will get through this**__, spoken like a mantra. This latest injection that the Russian doctor had given him, had Harry feeling as if glass shards had replaced his blood cells, traveling merrily through his circulatory system, inflicting so much pain Harry was astonished he hadn't passed out already. _

_"Again." The doctor raised up another syringe to the light, flicking it to rid the liquid of bubbles, and despite the loud voice inside Harry's mind screaming for him to buck away, plea for the doctor to have mercy and to __**just stop!**__, he pushed that urge away because that was the voice of weakness, and accepted the needle in his arm like the 'good boy' that The Man loves to compliment him as. _

_He'll get through this like everything else in his life, with a stiff upper lip, and a strength that he was building upon every day he spent in this hell hole. _

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_SMACK_

Harry hissed as the wood made contact with his knuckles for the hundredth time. He's been tortured before, more times than he can count, he's used to the pain. He'll get through this. He MUST!

"Gott verdammt!" He mumbled under his breath, fisting his hand to try and keep the pain at bay. Still not quiet enough, apparently.

Another loud and resounding _smack._ His hand twitched this time, reddened and inflamed from the abuse it had received in the course of the night.

This time followed by, "Manners...maketh...man." ANOTHER HUNDRED TIMES THE BLOODY MAN'S RECITED THAT!

He snapped. He couldn't take it anymore. The restraint around his neck was irritating him to no end, he could barely fucking move! And subjected to all these ... these ... rules! Regulations! And his two 'hosts', if one could even _call _them that, were taking much too much pleasure out of his suffering.

The damn sadists!

He grabbed the thing closest to his hand, jabbed it in the direction of his tormentor, and growled out between clenched, bared teeth like a rabid dog, "I could _kill _you with this _spoon _a thousand times over!"

Arthur and his wife gave him twin, severely unimpressed looks, all quirked eyebrows, twinkling eyes, and hidden smiles. Patiently waited for Harry's little temper flare-up to go back down again.

Harry deflated with an irritated huff of breath once he realized his empty threats wouldn't phase them, twisted his neck back to face the dining table - or as much as the damn scarf around his neck tying him to the chair would let him - and slammed the spoon back into its original spot.

It landed slightly crooked, resting at an 88 degree angle. He strained and arched his back against the tie, poked the spoon back into place with two index fingers, slumped back into his seat once he was done, but made sure that he was still _sitting with his spine straight like he had a stick up his arse_, and waited for the next instructions.

Arthur, at least, hid his grin, whilst his wife absolutely did not. Blasted woman...

_"So, you're Arthur's wife. I missed you that last time I camped out in your front room."_

_A tinkling laugh. "I'm sorry to have not gotten the opportunity. My job sent me out for a lecture."_

_Harry hummed, thoughtful, facing the woman's curious and too-kind eyes with his own uncertain - and, therefore, distrusting - ones._

_"Should I be calling you Guinevere then?"_

_"My name is Alice King. But you may call me Your Majesty at your disposal."_

_...Fine...Harry liked her._

"Now," Arthur said, taking his own spot at the table. "this is the salad fork." He raised up said utensil. Harry stifled a groan with a tight pressing of his eyelids closed. A steady breath exhaled through his nose to regain some calm.

He's survived worst tortures than this. He'll get through _dinner_ if it's the last _verdammt_ thing he did.

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Note:

Verdammt – German for 'damn'...and Gott Verdammt is 'goddamn'

Not German, so hopefully I used these words correctly.


	10. Chapter 10

Hey guys, SO SO SO sorry for the long wait. But holidays and life have been hectic. Friends having babies, other friends going through personal issues, and it's just been sooooo crazy, not to mention the wall I hit for this story.

Which brings me to this: If you guys have any little things you want to see happen, Merlin and Harry, or Harry and Eggsy, or just anything at all, let me know in the comments section and I'll see what I can do.

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Harry's taken to scurrying around in the vents as a way of scaring Merlin. He loved seeing the ever-composed man shriek, losing that composure if only for that moment. Plus, Merlin wouldn't let up with that 'mouse' nickname, so might as well live up to the expectation, right?

But before he even got to that grate, he felt there was something wrong. The lab's lights were never turned off, not even when it was unoccupied. But here and now, the room Harry was peeking into, was pitch black. Worried now, Harry slipped out his knife from the hidden holster in his sleeve, his other hand quietly removing the screws on the grate. Pulling the metal away, Harry pushed his hearing out, but couldn't hear much over the hum of the many machines that idled in this room.

He cautiously slipped his face out enough to look in, his eyes having adjusted to the light a while back. He didn't see much out of place, chairs still pushed in under desks, the various colored lights blinking to indicate their processes. Weird...Where was Merlin? He was usually overseeing the new tech development during this time of the day. Harry'd been gone for a couple weeks in Slovokia, but Merlin would have told him had his schedule changed...wouldn't he? They talked every chance they got on the comms, so surely...

Was it an attack? But if it was an attack, what attacker would take the time to tidy up and turn off the lights and everything before leaving? Harry decided he'd have to investigate, and would hold off on calling this in, lest it be something small, like a short in the fuse or something just as trivial.

With the same grace and silence as a waiting panther, Harry slipped out of the vent and landed delicately on the desk directly underneath the grate, forgoing closing the vent in case he had to make a hasty exit.

The abrupt appearance of the overhead lights blinded Harry for all of a second, but that was all he needed to pull out his guns, aiming them at -

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" a chorus of voices, thirty strong, shouted. Harry blinked, both pistols aimed at Merlin holding a ... a cake. With ... candles.

Herded behind him were Arthur, Dr. McKenna, a few of the Kingsmen agents - Percivel, Tristan, and Gareth - and a massive amount of technicians and 'interns', all wearing party hats and throwing confetti and streamers. Over their head, was a banner (and how the Hell did Harry miss that at first glance of the room?!), declaring in cheerful red paint, _Happy Fifteenth!_

Harry would scold himself for this later for letting so much of his surprise show, but he all out gaped at them, even as they surrounded him clapping him on the back, he stared at the birthday cake, at Merlin's smiling face, the barrels of his guns still aimed at the frosting with his name on it.

"Did you think we weren't going to remember your birthday, lad?" Merlin crowed, and Arthur clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, slow enough where Harry saw it coming and could repress his flinch. "Happy birthday, son."

For a moment, anger overshadowed the surprise. "I could have SHOT you!" Harry clicked on the safety of the pistols, and tucked them back into his chest holsters. But instead of feeling admonished for doing something as tremendously stupid as scaring a trained killer by throwing a surprise birthday party, they all laughed, as if their lives hadn't just been ended by friendly fire. Despite it all, Harry found himself feeling slightly...giddy...that they'd been so thoughtful to do something like this...even though Harry couldn't have given a bigger flying fuck about his birthday.

But the proud smile on Merlin's face when he shoved the cake under Harry's nose and said, "I baked it myself." to which, Tristan replied, "Oi, I helped!" had Harry thinking that maybe it was worth suffering through this. He owed them at least his respect.

"You _frosted_ it, Tristan," Gareth put in, his arms crossed over his chest as he beamed back at Harry. "_I _mix the ingredients."

Harry had the urge to laugh. Instead, he said, "Aren't you supposed to not be together in the same room? New regs, right?"

"After your little stunt, kneecap-ing all of us in the elbows," Tristan huffed, shaking his arm in front of Harry's face. "No, we're not all supposed to be in the same room together all at once."

"Which is why..." Arthur said, and produced a phone to show to Harry. On the screen were the smiling faces of the other Kingsman Knights.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GALAHAD!" Gawain, Geraint, Kay, and Lamorak all said in unison.

Feeling slightly flustered and embarrassed by all this attention and effort for little ol' him, Harry waved back, feeling a flush of red creeping up his neck.

They moved back enough for Harry to hop off the table.

"Happy birthday, Harry." He was met with the warm face of his psychiatrist, Dr. McKenna's hand outstretched. Harry took the proffered hand and shook it. "Hello, Doctor. So they dragged you into this too, eh?"

"Actually, it was all his idea," Percivel added, coming up to press a glass of champagne into Harry's hands.

Harry looked down at the bubbly liquid, an invitation to join the festivities, then back up to his doctor, who simply inclined an eyebrow upwards as if to say 'It's your choice, Harry', and after a moment...Harry thought _why not_? He took a sip.

"All right, ladies and gents, let's get this party started!" Merlin's declaration was met with a loud cheer, and before Harry knew it, he was passed around from one smiling and congratulating person to another, his champagne glass always filled, and his company never left alone for one second by either Merlin, Dr. McKenna, or Arthur.

Afterwards..

Slightly tipsy, his emotions elevated in a way it hasn't been since that day his father had the fortune of winning a bonus at their job and they had a wonderful day out in the city, Harry sat amongst the piles and piles of gift-wrapping paper, surrounded by his new gifts and the team that he's come to know as so much more, giggling at the way Percivel was decorating an oblivious Gareth's head with streamers, Harry decided that maybe he was...for the first time in a very long time...content, if not happy.

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Eggsy stared out the windows of his school. He couldn't help but wonder where _he_ has gone. Those eyes, usually always on him, hadn't been there for more than a week now, watching him from afar. He couldn't say he missed it. Eggsy couldn't say that he was worried.

But what if something had happened to Colin? What if Colin had disappeared, and Eggsy would never get his answers? What if...

What if Colin got _tired_ of watching Eggsy...and decided that he'd leave too?

An unfathomable emotion swelled in Eggsy's chest at the thought, and he had to grit his teeth, turning away from the outside world to focus on the study book in front of him. What did he care if that Colin boy left? What would be the difference?

They all left, one way or another. And in the end, Eggsy was alone.

"Ay, mate." Eggsy felt a nudge in his back, and he saw something out of the periphery of his vision. He looked down to see that his friend, Henry, sitting behind him, had slipped a note under his desk and was waiting for Eggsy to take it. He glanced towards the teacher, but she was still at the chalkboard, writing as she read from the text.

He took the paper, and unfolded it to read the note within.

_Let's 86 the rest of the day, bruv. This history stuff is well bad._

Eggsy thought about it, looked back out the window for just a second more, but felt no inquisitive gazes on him, and after a moment...Eggsy thought _why not_?


	11. Chapter 11

The walls of his mind were, unlike he'd told Dr. McKenna, not all dark and dank like some cliche medieval torture chamber. No. His memories, recollections, played out along these walls when he chose to traverse them. Movie projections. Like now, with the rote and soothingly repetitive act of jogging, Harry was free to simply retreat back into his head, displaced from his body, but always watching, on alert.

It's a practice he'd developed from years of constant drug use. And just the mere thought of another dose, of that insidious liquid, had his arms itching for the needle. But he's strong...and he easily pushed away that nagging need.

Strolling through his own mind, must seem strange to most people, but like he'd told Dr. McKenna: "When you're on a roof, waiting for hours and hours on end just so your target would come to the one spot you could get a clear shot, what do you do? You live inside your own mind, let your body move on automatic while you preoccupy yourself. Sunken into that blissful haze that the drugs provided - 'stuck', I believe some addicts have called it - I find myself adrift, my memories and thoughts floating along in this nether space with me. With all this time to spare, I decided to arrange them neatly, organizing them into the system I have now. And I've found, since then, that it has been a great catalyst in accessing different parts of my body too. It provides a control over myself that I have never found elsewhere. I can slow my impulses, my heart rate and breathing. It allows me to steady myself, allows me to _think_ before I react."

Harry's using that trick now. He does it a lot when he's jogging. Working his body to the limit whilst he walked down the length of his consciousness. The hallway he was in was akin to blinders on a horse. But instead of blinding him, he's allowed to center himself somewhere just a step beyond his body. The walls on either side of him, the images laid out before him, streamed the environment he was in.

He stood there, on that white flooring, watching as the world passed him by. To his right, the mansion jostled up and down as he kept a steady rhythm. To his left, were the copse of trees that lined the large estate. In front, was the pathway that the trainees were usually put on. Harry knew that, if he looked backwards, he'd see the journey he'd traversed. If he looked down, he would be greeted with the sight of his feet, pat-pat-pat-pat onto the dirt floor.

He breathed in deep, closing his eyes for a second as he allowed the sunshine to soak into his skin, allowed himself to savor the freedom that came from running, from being able to _have_ this ability to run without having to worry about when to get back to his handler. In..._that place..._they didn't allow the assets to leave their cells without a necessary purpose, let alone outside of the facility. And so all of his running had been done on a treadmill, watched over by his handler and monitored by machines.

His hearing caught the sound of approaching footsteps, the cadence fast but not racing. He recognized those steps.

A set of feet veered off the large lawn and timed itself with Harry's pace.

Harry receded out of his mind, and now felt the smooth burn of the muscles along his legs, the in and out of his breath, looked to the side, never letting up on his speed, saw that Merlin had shed his stuffy cardigan and shirts for sweat pants and a white t-shirt. The older Kingsman returned his look with a sly grin and a raised eyebrow, as if to say 'Yes, and...?'

_Ohhhh, so it's a challenge that Merlin wants. _

Well, then...

Harry picked up the pace, feeling something in his chest slowly unravel just another inch more at the sight of Merlin's easy attitude with him, the way that shirt clung to his toned body, the sunlight hitting the older man's eyes in just that way that made them shine like black diamonds. Realizing he was staring, Harry whipped his attention back to the road, and pushed himself even harder, gaining a small gap in between them.

Merlin's longer legs and fresh stamina kept up easily with him, but Harry would be damned if he let this smug bastard win.

Merlin chuckled, as if he'd heard that last part, and took off. Harry narrowed his eyes at Merlin's back, dug in deep, put some more steam behind his muscles, and chased after him, their delighted laughter dispersed by the wind flying past them.

Eggsy has made close friends with anger and frustration ever since his father died. His mother, on the other hand, was sent into a downward spiral, slowly drifting further and further into depression. To supplement her loneliness, the hole in her heart and family, she's started finding companionship in any person that paid more than friendly attention to her. She wasn't always like this, Eggsy knew. His mother was a beautiful, kind woman. She still was.

But she resembled, on the exterior, nothing like the woman that had walked down the aisle, beaming and teary-eyed. Eyes and face caked with various colors of makeup, she'd be out at all times of the night, soothing her grief and pain in the only way she knew how, leaving Eggsy under the care of the elderly neighbor even though he was old enough to care for himself already at the age of .

Mrs. Johnson was a lovely old lady, who would chatter Eggsy's ear off when she was awake, but more often than not, she was asleep on the sofa, chin resting on her chest, sometimes tilted dangerously to the side where Eggsy would have to tilt her back onto the cushion lest she fall and break her hip again.

Eggsy understood why his mother does what she does, going out early and staying out until way past the midnight hour. He understood that this was her way of coping. But of all the times his mother went out, coming back home smelling like alcohol and cheap cologne, she'd never brought any of her dalliances back with her.

But tonight...

Just the thought of it made him want to scream!

IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE! She dared to bring that bastard back to his FATHER's house!

He'd taken one look down the stairs, saw his mother stumbling into the house, shushing 'Bill' as she tugged him in through the door, and he'd seen red.

He ran.

He didn't know where he was running, just that he had to get out of there. His feet took him far out of the suburbs, towards the edge of the city, his heart punching against his ribs, lungs burning with the exertion. But still he kept going. Trying to forget all the times his mother had cried quietly in the night, letting the wind push away all thoughts of his father, smiling and laughing, whispering 'I love you'.

He's gone. He's gone. And Eggsy never even got to see the body. Never really got to say goodbye. The only evidence of his death; the nondescript headstone at St. Mary's Cathedral.

He stopped running not because he wanted to, but because his body would collapse if he didn't. Gasping for breath, he braced himself on his knees, huffing and puffing, looked up to survey his surroundings. His feet had taken him to one of his mates' hangout spots. A construction site, the high rise structure left unfinished from lack of funding. Perfect place for the delinquents of the city to fool around in, smoking and drinking and just acting every bit the malcontent.

On the fifth floor, Eggsy was given a beautiful view of the moon high in the sky, full and round and peaceful. He latched onto the sight, willing his anger back. His papa used to take him stargazing. They'd lay out a blanket on the roof of their house, and his papa would tell him about the different constellations, about all the different meanings the North Star had for different cultures and how to find his way back to safety if he ever was lost in the wilderness using that star.

And that's when he felt it.

He'd probably felt it ever since he left his house, bolting down the street into the night, but he'd been so enraged he didn't notice it until now. But of course he's here...why wouldn't he be? Watching from afar as always, hidden in the shadows, always there and not there. Eggsy wanted to scream. But instead of a scream, a burst of sardonic amusement bubbled up in his chest, escaping through his mouth in the form of a dark chuckle. Once that came out, he couldn't stop. He laughed, long and loud and deep, because the alternative was crying, and he'll be damned if he cried in front of _him. _He laughed until he was on his knees, choking on air, his stomach cramping with the exertion.

And when he finally fell silent, teary-eyes opened to see a pair of feet in front of him. He followed it upwards to that achingly familiar face, as blank as an unused chalkboard, as beautiful as the moon behind the teenager's shoulder.

Colin.

Just as the moon had captured Eggsy's attention, he was taken just as fully by Colin's eyes. His face may be expressionless, more automaton than human, but those eyes held deep secrets. Hidden emotions roiling like the Atlantic in those caramel depths.

He spoke before he could stop himself. "What's your real name?"

Because Colin was most certainly not it. The boy had spoken it with the same air one used with a very well rehearsed script.

There came no answer. Nothing except for the slightest tug of Colin's lips upward. So light Eggsy wouldn't have seen it had he not been staring so intently into the other boy's face.

"If you can catch me, then I'll tell you," Colin offered - looking so damnably relaxed in his jeans and black hoodie, hands jammed into his pockets, a sag in his shoulders that spoke of confidence and just a hint of smugness to provoke Eggsy into this game.

Before Eggsy could even fully grasp the full meaning of that short sentence, Colin took off. Down the length of the unfinished floor, towards the edge where no barrier had been set up, and Colin _jumped._

Unable to comprehend what he'd just seen - because they were on the fifth fucking floor! - he scrambled up and bolted forwards, skidding to a halt just before the drop, and looked down. From up here, the wind was strong, whipping around his body, threatening to tug him too far over the side and down towards oblivion. And just the thought of that fall was enough to jellify his legs...and to think, Colin had JUMPED OFF!

But instead of a bloody carcass, Eggsy was met with a smirking face, mischief playing over those fine features. Colin! Alive and well, the older boy stared back up at him.

The teenager had jumped and, instead of falling to his death, landed on one of the scaffolding platforms leftover from the construction crew. A flood of relief washed over Eggsy, so strong it surprised even himself.

He let out a heavy breath, and met that irritatingly smug grin with a curse, "You bloody wanker!"

His only response was a jaunty, two-fingered salute, and then Colin was off again, running down to the other end of the scaffolding, vaulted over the bars, and swung down into the fourth floor of the building. Begrudgingly impressed - and somewhat terrified because this was a five-story drop and he doubted even Colin could catch him from this height - he backed up, giving himself room to pick up speed.

Considering it enough, Eggsy stopped when he got to the middle of the floor. For a moment, he allowed himself to just breathe, work up his courage and bollocks. He huffed in one breath, two, murmured a pep talk to himself, "Come on, Eggsy ol' boy, you can do this."

And then he ran. He ran and ran to the edge.

He jumped.

"Why did you reveal yourself this time, Harry?" Dr. McKenna was watching him intently, but Harry didn't feel like he was being judged or criticized. Hasn't felt it for awhile now. He's been through enough sessions with this man to know that the doctor held nothing but respect and well-meaning thoughts for him. And the fact that he actually believed the psychiatrist when Dr. McKenna said so, was another breakthrough in itself.

He thought about his answer carefully, dissected each moment and analyzed it with surgical precision.

"He looked...angry. And...And I wanted to comfort him."

"Do you believe it is a sense of responsibility that led you to comfort Eggsy?"

He shook his head 'No'. Gnawing on his lower lip, tapping a steady cadence on his crossed leg with his index finger, Harry studied the world beyond the window. "He reminded me of myself. Enraged, alone, with nowhere and no one to turn to except inwards. And I...I didn't want that for him."

Dr. McKenna nodded, an acknowledgement of his answer and a bid for him to continue.

"I know what it's like. And I know that he'd only wallow in his despair if he didn't have something to live for. A purpose to latch onto."

"And so you approached him, led him on a chase, giving him a temporary relief from that which had provoked him to run," Dr. McKenna surmised.

"To be honest, doctor," Harry said, slightly sheepish. "I didn't really know what I was going to do once I approached him. But the sight of him there, borderline hysterical, I was there before I knew my feet had even moved. And when he asked me my name..."

Harry paused, pondered on something that he had not really been conscious of until now. Funny how often this has been happening to him lately. He searched for those all-seeing eyes of his doctor's, and found them across the table, behind steepled fingers, patient as ever.

"I've changed, doctor."

If the psychiatrist was confused about the non-sequitur, he didn't show it. Instead, he rested his hands on his arm rests and leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. "And how is that, Harry?"

"I'm...mischievous. I have a dark sense of humor, Arthur tells me. Having any sense of humor whatsoever, is surprising to me already. But I've come to realize that, I have a..._personality..._now."

A smile, proud and fond, lifted the corners of Doctor McKenna's lips. "You're becoming yourself. You're slowly stripping away the chains that held you in the darkness, and you're adjusting to the light. You said yourself, that without something to live for, to strive towards, Eggsy would wallow in his despair. And so you gave him a goal. He did not catch you this time, so he'll try again next time, give him a small respite from his home life as he works towards this victory. You, Harry, have so much now to live for too. And I'm not speaking of the missions that the Kingsman put you in, those set goals achieved and catalogued."

"So, you're saying I was always meant to be a 'devil child', like Percivel has dubbed me?" Harry chuckled as he was reminded of the face Percivel made when he'd set off all the alarms in the safe house they'd been holed up in after he was certain the older Kingsman had fallen asleep.

"It is hard to say what you could have been, what you would have been, had what occurred to you, not occurred. Just as you've said, it is useless stewing in the grief of your past, simply 'square your shoulders and barrel through it.' But you're becoming aware that life is not all about simply finishing one mission then onto another, it is not just an inhale after an exhale, one step in front of the last. Life is about laughter, about mischief, about friendship, about happiness."

Dr. McKenna leaned forwards, the way he always does whenever he wanted Harry to really understand the weight of his words. "Do whatever it is that makes you happy, Harry. Not just what it takes to survive."

Dr. McKenna did not become the one of the most famous names in his field for nothing. He was the Rock of Gibraltar for the Kingsman Knights, and not just because of his charming disposition and boyish grin (if he may say so himself). No. He's been working with the type of people that made up the Secret Service for longer than he could remember, and he's been through enough where he'd thought he'd seen everything.

But here...now...he didn't realize how wrong he was.

He'd opened his office door at promptly 6:30am as usual, stepped in and closed the door behind him, flicking on the lights. And when he'd turned around, he stopped. Gaped.

He blinked once, then blinked again at the interior of his office because surely he was seeing things...

His beautiful mahogany desk, wrapped in bright, Christmas wrapping paper. Along with his large wing-backed chair. His computer was packaged nicely with a pink bow on top. The pictures of his family, their frames encased in bubble wrap - perhaps the prankster had run out of wrapping paper.

But the thing that really took the cake - well, not cake in this case - was the fact that, lying on top of his gift-wrapped desk, were all his office supplies, set inside large multi-colored gelatin molds.

His stapler, his pens, hell even his _coffee mug_ were all placed in bundt-shaped jello molds. And slapped onto the largest jelly mold, housing his entire desk lamp, was a large, round, and yellow smiley face sticker.

He sighed, resigned himself to a day of unwrapping his furniture, elbow deep in gelatin confections. And yet he couldn't stop the large smile that broke out on his face, and thought with a fond shake of his head:

Devil child, indeed.


	12. Chapter 12

HI GUYS, I'm back! So sorry for the delay. I had another chapter that I wanted to put up before this in the timeline but I just can't get past the wall that's formed in the middle of it. So I put this one up just because it's been much too long since I last updated, and this has been completed for a while now.

Get ready for some Harry and Merlin fluff...and of course with a dash of angst for spice. Just remember here that they're not together yet. The feelings are there, but nothing romantic yet...atleast not on Harry's part.

x

It looked like Harry hadn't slept in days. Merlin could see it, despite how easy it was for the boy to hide from everybody else, though Merlin still couldn't figure out how Harry didn't have bags under his eyes. Makeup? Whatever it was that Harry did to look like he's still in top form, it's working. But to Merlin, who's seen Galahad at his best, flying over rooftops faster than should be possible for a teenage boy, scaling ten foot high walls as if he had feline DNA, it's easy to spot the difference.

There's a sag to Harry's shoulders when he's exhausted, his lips paler than usual, his eyes dimmed like a fading lightbulb. The pranks and traps that littered the large estate were thankfully - worryingly, in Merlin's case - absent. Merlin's usually energetic mouse, reduced to the lethargic blob of clothes and flesh and bones hidden away in the vent right above Merlin's head.

The youngest Kingsman in history wouldn't show any of these symptoms voluntarily for the same reason a poker player didn't show a hint of emotion when they played:

To hide all signs of weakness.

And if said youngest Kingsman in history ever found out that Merlin could pick out the subtleties in his behavior, the boy would balk. He'd do the first thing that came to mind, which was pull away. Retreat back into himself, analyze the cracks in his mask, and patch them up until they were impenetrable.

Merlin didn't want that. He _wanted_ to know when Harry was tired, _wanted _to know when Harry was not at his best. Because Merlin's his eyes in the sky when Galahad's in the field. He needed this information to know when to pull the Kingsman back, when to order Galahad to the safehouse to sleep it off. Because an agent not at their best in the field, was another major decrease in the probability that that agent would come back home in one piece...would get back home alive.

And...if Merlin was being completely honest with himself...something deeply possessive inside of him purred at the thought that he was the only one who could pick out the chinks in Galahad's armor.

Which left the million dollar question:

How could Merlin figure out what it was keeping Harry from sleeping without Harry knowing that Merlin knew and Merlin being able to fix the issue all without broaching the topic with Harry so that Merlin could continue to know in the future when Harry was troubled enough to not sleep?

...

Get it?

Got it.

Good.

He finished typing out his notes for Arthur - his recommendations of which candidate would be best suited for Lancelot's position - and looked up to the vent, stretching.

"Mouse?" A pair of brown eyes poked out of the darkness, just enough so Merlin knew he was there. "Are you coming down any time soon?"

The boy didn't respond, but the dual brown orbs disappeared, only to appear again a few seconds later. "Might want to move a bit, Merlin."

And that was another thing that gave away Harry's lack of energy; his accent would grow just that tad bit heavier. A mix of German, French, posh British, and Scottish. A weird mixture, and a unique accent to have, though it wasn't so much an accent as it was only certain words pronounced in various different tones. But that was to be expected from a boy that spoke so many languages fluently.

Merlin liked to think that the dash of Scot in Harry's vocabulary came from himself, but he knew it was from Harry's mother, who was Scottish.

He obediently stood up, pushed his chair in, and stepped back a foot, busying himself with his phone, sending off the report to Arthur's inbox. He didn't so much as hear Harry exit the grate and drop down to the floor, so much as felt him do it. The air displacing just enough to know that the boy was overhead, and then seeing the body that fell in a crouch, growing in size as Harry stood.

"Done with your report?" the boy asked, leaning his hip against the computer desk and crossing his arms, his right leg entwining over the other as he watched Merlin.

"Just about," he assured Harry, waved a hand to indicate the chair he'd vacated. "Have a seat like a normal human being for once, lad. That vent can't be good on your back."

Harry huffed good-naturedly, but took the seat, slumping into it with all the casual confidence only a teenage smartass who could kill a man three times his size with a paperclip could have. "Just because you're a few years away from using a walker to get around, doesn't mean I am."

Merlin swallowed down the bitter taste that appeared in his mouth at the words. Harry's joking, of course, playing with him as the snarky little brat was usually wont to do, but the fact still remained that Merlin's much older than Harry by many years. Fifteen, to be exact. And Merlin's tried...he's_ tried_ to stay away, because he knew full well just what has been building in his chest.

But he wanted, more than anything else in his life. _God _how Merlin wanted!

"Are you even listening to me, Merlin?"

Merlin blinked, and realized he'd been staring down at his phone, unmoving, for much too long. He kept his face as blank as possible, and clicked off the device, pocketing it before turning his attention on the boy. "Sorry. I just got a message from my sister," he lied easily.

Harry, thankfully, didn't question Merlin's lapse further, twirling the chair from side to side, the fingers of his right hand expertly twirling a blade around and around. "Sister? We've been working together for two years, and you never told me you had a sister."

"Oh yes. I have two sisters and one brother, in fact. I'm the second oldest." Merlin puttered around, packing up his stuff and turning off the electronics, and wondered if he'd imagined the slight tinge of hurt in Harry's voice. He spoke as he worked. "I don't get to see them often, only once or twice a year. Summer, when their kids have school off, and Christmas. We used to have the gatherings at my father's house, but ever since he passed a few years back, we've been doing it at mine. Being a bachelor and all, I've got plenty of room for them and their families."

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Long enough where Merlin turned to look over his shoulder, and saw Harry watching him with a frown. Confused.

"What's wrong?" Merlin asked, straightening and turning fully towards the boy.

"You _live_ somewhere?"

Umm...

OK...Merlin didn't expect _that_ to be the follow up question.

"You mean, live somewhere, as in...have my own house?"

The fact that he had to clarify said more about Harry's opinion of Merlin than Merlin was comfortable to admit. Harry didn't answer, but the minute tilt of his chin was more than enough.

"Of course I have my own house. I mean, I don't stay there enough where it's actually worth the amount of 0's before the period in my mortgage statement, but it's a place I call my own."

He doesn't say that it hasn't felt like home to him since a snarking little brat dropped into Merlin's life; too cold, too big and lonely. He doesn't say that, stuck behind the monitors as he bantered with Galahad over the comms during the down times of a mission, felt more like home than the three million pound house on the side of a hill overlooking London proper.

"Oh," was all Merlin got as a response, and a flicker of emotion crossed Harry's face too fast for the boy to catch. If Harry weren't so exhausted, he'd probably have caught it, but being that he looked like he hadn't slept in days, he didn't. And Merlin was glad for it because...because was that really what Merlin thought he'd seen?!

"What's the matter, mouse?" Merlin asked, approaching slowly, words as soft as his tread. Harry's turning away now, avoiding the question, but after two years of working together, putting implicit trust in one another, Merlin knew how to break through the barrier, grab a hold of the emotion that he'd seen and slowly - carefully - tug it out into the light.

"Hey..." Merlin cooed, crouching next to the chair, pulling it back to face towards him, and made sure to connect with Harry's eyes before asking again, just as lightly, "What's wrong?"

"Du hast noch nie..." Harry trailed off, eyes ducked away, and Merlin quickly translated the German. '_You've never..._'

And Merlin's heart clenched at the rare sight of Harry being so uncertain, because Harry tended to revert to other languages when he was uneasy...sheepish...as if speaking English would expose too much of himself, would further the embarrassment of whatever it was he thought would make him look weak and small. Another side of the boy that he did not show to anybody but Merlin, Arthur, and Dr. McKenna.

"'You've never' what, mouse?" Merlin coaxed, twining his hands together to hang limply in the gap between his knees.

"You've never invited me to your house," Harry blurted out in one swift sentence, red flushing up his neck as he turned his head away again, but his face was set in stone.

Ahh...but of course. How could Merlin have not remembered? Arthur, the first person since Harry's capture to ever say a friendly word to him not laced with any insidious intentions, welcomed Harry to his home with open arms. His wife cooks him dinner often, and calls Harry 'love'.

Doctor McKenna, who invited Harry over to his house to meet his family and have dinner on the anniversary date of Harry's parents' deaths. A date which Harry had adamantly refused to acknowledge affected him in any way, but Merlin had noticed the marked difference in the weeks leading to the anniversary, and the days after Harry came back from the psychiatrist's house with a stuffed belly and a child's crude drawing of a pink butterfly on his left cheek.

Hell, even the other Kingsmen have mentioned having Harry over to their own houses on random occasions, a mention not quickly repeated because they knew just how hesitant Harry still was about forming relationships, and so to continue badgering the boy would be to ensure Harry's absolute refusal.

But Merlin...Merlin's never mentioned it to Harry even once that he had a place outside of the manor. Never mentioned that he had a family. What this must look like to the unloved, neglected, and insecure child that resided in the ever-confident and capable Galahad.

"Oh no, no, mouse, don't you _ever_ think that way." He made sure the young Kingsman agent saw every move as Merlin made it, lifting his hand to rest along Harry's cheek, raising the boy's gaze up again to meet his. "You are Galahad. One of the craziest, fiercest Kingsman Knights I've ever had the honor of working with. But first and foremost, you are Harry Hart. My friend. My little mouse."

Again, Merlin was grateful Harry was too exhausted to fight down the blush. But before Merlin could forget himself, do what his heart was urging him to do (which was press his lips to Harry's, wrap him up in his arms and not let go until the boy was breathless and languid with pleasure), he took his hand away, breaking contact.

Harry stared intently into Merlin's eyes as if searching for the inevitable lie, something Harry hasn't done for a while now, not since the boy realized Merlin treated him with the respect one gave a human being instead of a cherished weapon. But then the younger agent blinked, and Merlin knew Harry'd found his answer.

He couldn't help teasing the boy, though.

"Plus," Merlin grinned teasingly. "you haven't invited me to _your _new flat since you got it."

"That's because I didn't want it from the very beginning." Harry let out a sigh, exasperated. And Merlin realized - what a stroke of LUCK! - just what it was that has been causing Harry this insomnia.

"It was Arthur's idea! His and my blasted _therapist's_!" Harry's off on a tiny rant now, standing and pacing, his knife clutched in his hand, a sign of his immense irritation. "You need your own place, Arthur says! Your independence must grow, Doctor McKenna tells me! Have I not progressed enough?! Are they not _satisfied_!? What more must I do until they realize I'm FINE!?"

"Why don't you like having your own place, Harry?" Merlin took the seat Harry vacated, watched as the boy paced from one side of Merlin's office to the other. While Harry's mood swings, his hostile and cold behavior, has decreased drastically, Harry was still a fifteen year old boy, going on sixteen soon. And understandably, there were times when the teenager's patience would run out, and he'd have to vent. Most often than not, it was either Arthur or Merlin that took the brunt of it, seeing as how Dr. McKenna's reduced Harry's appointments to only once every two weeks now.

"It's unnecessary," the boy insisted, his free hand flying about in the air to illustrate his words. "It's an extravagance that is completely wasted on me. I have a perfectly good bed here, why can't I just stay at the manor? I've been happy, sleeping here for the past two years, what's changed now?"

"Well, what's the difference between sleeping in your flat, and sleeping here? And if you don't give it all of your effort to adapt to the new environment, then how do you know for certain that you won't like it?" Merlin reasoned. He knew this was bordering on a challenge for the boy, striking him where he was most vulnerable. Harry prided himself on being able to survive any change, any obstacle thrown in his way. If Merlin twisted this situation into just another hurdle for Harry to overcome, the young Kingsman would not shy away from the challenge.

The boy paced some more, but didn't answer. Merlin let him have all the time he needed to think through his answer. After a long beat of silence, Harry stopped, and he heaved a heavy sigh. Without turning to look at Merlin, he asked, in a voice that was smaller than usual, "Mochten sie..." Harry paused again, and Merlin waited half a clock's tick before poking verbally, "'Do I want to', what?"

"Mochten sie mein haus sehen?" Harry seemed to shrink in on himself immediately afterwards, most likely expecting Merlin to reject the offer.

Merlin blinked. Blinked again. Fought down the wide smile currently trying to cut through his face, and suppressing the urge to pull Harry into his arms, pepper kisses all over the beautifully blushing timid boy's face, Merlin steadied his voice enough to say, "I would be honored, mouse, to visit your new flat."

Merlin understood quite quickly why Harry didn't feel comfortable here. The house, whilst not as big as Merlin's own house on the cliff, was still much too large for a teenager. Especially one that spent most of his time in other countries or at the mansion.

"What's the story that they gave to the landlord and your neighbors?" Merlin asked as he examined the tastefully chosen art work on the walls.

"Trust fund baby," Harry shrugged. "This is just one of the houses that I stay in when I'm not at Oxford, studying or in class, so that explains the long periods of absences."

"Spoiled little brat then. Not too far off the mark," Merlin threw a playful smirk over his shoulder at the boy, who was looking every bit like he was in a museum instead of in the middle of his own front room, hands in his pockets, keeping a strict no-touching distance from any nearby objects.

Harry gasped, pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, feigning shock. "I'll have you know, sir, that I am most _certainly _not _spoiled_!"

Their laughter bloody _echoed_ in the massive living room.

And Merlin thought _his_ house was impersonal. At least he'd picked out his own furnishings. When he went home, he knew that he was going back to a place that he'd crafted himself, bought and custom made for him. But Harry hadn't been given this luxury.

A Kingsman Knight was the epitome of a Gentleman. And Gentlemen did not live in shoddy dumps. Just as their clothes were tailored to their bodies, so were their living situations. Harry, being too young and too resistant towards the idea of having his own place, was assigned one that Arthur picked out personally (with Alice's help, of course).

Far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the city to offer a reprieve, but not too close to the suburbs where Harry would die of boredom and domesticity, Harry's flat was located in a tasteful little section five minutes outside of London. From the exterior, with the white paint and terraces, Merlin was reminded greatly of the houses in Italy.

Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and plenty of space for the front room and kitchen and dining room, Merlin wondered how many spots the Kingsman's squirreled away weapons in already. Most likely not that many, considering Harry's less than friendly feelings towards the place.

"Oh my...Van Gogh." A large replica of Starry Night hung in the hall that separated the front room and the bedrooms.

Harry grumbled something too low under his breath for Merlin to hear, but it didn't sound like it was anything too bad...not too good either.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," Merlin said, looking to the side where the boy stood, hands still jammed in his pockets, the very picture of defensive and closed-off.

"I said, 'That's probably the only thing here that I'd approve of'." Harry shuffled his feet a bit, looking much too much like a timid teenager. How endearing.

"Well, boy'o, let's see what else you approve of, eh?" Merlin said, clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder, warmth blooming in his chest when Harry didn't flinch from the sudden, unannounced move. He steered him towards the bedrooms, where the master suite had an impressive view of the Thames.

"Where have you been sleeping?" Because it certainly wasn't here. The sheets looked like they haven't been touched since they were put on, stylish and impractically decorated.

Harry didn't answer, and Merlin looked to the side to see that Harry was blushing again (so uncharacteristically open, the boy's been today), gnawing on his lower lip. After a moment, a hand raised up, a finger pointed in the direction of...

...the closet.

Merlin masked his surprise with considerable effort. He bit back on a curse. He _shouldn't_ have been surprised at all by this admission because he should have known. How could he have not known? And, most importantly, how could _Dr. McKenna _have not foreseen this!?

Harry had lived in a cell for near on a decade, the size of this flat's master bathroom. He'd been raised in darkness, rested and dwelled in the almost pitch black of his prison.

And while Harry had been left to his own thoughts for long periods of time in captivity, yes, there was always at least somebody there, just beyond the locked door. People that made sure their assets were tucked away in their respective cages, but also would be the first warning system to alert the boy if any attack ever happened while Harry slept.

In the mansion, Harry had his own assigned room, just like all the other Kingsmen. It wasn't overly large, but large enough where Harry could live comfortably in and not feel claustrophobic. And he'd had no problem adjusting to the lavish space because, just beyond those gilded doors, were more people; interns, technicians, other Secret Service members. People that Harry trusted enough to watch his back when he slept.

In this large and empty house, with not a soul in sight other than the abused and neglected boy, it was understandable that Harry would find someplace to sleep that he was used to, clutching to the last ounces of familiarity that he could.

The closet, a spot that Harry could camp out in and barricade should an assassin try to sneak in in the middle of the night.

The closet, dark and small enough where it was like the cell Harry'd been forced into.

The thought made a rage swell in his breast, and Merlin wanted to scream, hurl something at the walls, shatter _something_. Instead, Merlin took in a small breath to steady himself, and approached the sliding doors, pushing them open. Indeed, on the floor was a blanket and a book. _The Once And Future King_, Merlin had to smile at that. There was, worryingly, no pillow, even though the bed not ten feet away held more than enough to support a whole army.

"Why have you been sleeping here, mouse?" Merlin asked, even though he knew the answer, careful to keep his tone light. "Just because I call you 'mouse', doesn't mean you have to sleep like one."

Harry gnawed on his lower lip some more. "It's too big. I'm not - " He paused, then started again. "I'm not used to being in such a big place."

Merlin didn't say anything. Didn't mention that no child, let alone this wonderfully brilliant, sassy, thoughtful boy who would leave fish and chips and tea for Merlin when he was too busy to eat lunch, should ever have to live in such a cold environment like this. Alone.

Instead, he steered Harry back out of the suite, to the front room, and back out the door. On the ride back to the mansion, Merlin considered this newfound dilemma.

Arthur and Dr. McKenna were right in getting Harry his own flat, away from the mansion. Harry needed a life outside of the Kingsman. He was a teenager, who should live as a teenager would. Make friends, form relationships with people that did not know carry a gun with them everywhere they went and knew how to take down a person in three seconds flat.

But they were moving too fast, thrusting Harry into an unfamiliar environment, leaving him confused and wrong-footed.

Safely sequestered in his own room in the mansion, Merlin left Harry at the door, promising he'd see him the next day. He waited until Harry closed himself in the comfort of the room before Merlin turned to go, intent on finding one specific person.

"Ah, hello, Merlin! How are you?" The doctor welcomed Merlin in with a sweep of his hand towards the interior of his office. Spacious, with a wonderful view, and designed to soothe the moment one walked in. Merlin offered his own greetings, and sat in the seat that the doctor ushered him to. "What can I do for you, Merlin?"

He chose his words carefully. Doctor McKenna was a man that Merlin never hesitated in turning to, not just because he was a brilliant therapist, but also because he knew the man would not judge or criticize him for anything he chose to reveal or not reveal. An open ear, an anchor, that's what Dr. McKenna was for them. "I've come to speak with you about Galahad."

The doctor nodded for Merlin to continue. And so he did. He told the doctor, without really telling the doctor, what's been eating away at Harry, what's been keeping the boy from making his home into his own, what's been the cause of the sleepless nights.

"Four walls and a roof doesn't make it a home." Merlin thought back to his own house. "But if you and Arthur insist on pushing his independence in such a way, shouldn't you have done it gradually? Without making it seem like you've all but abandoned him in that cold and lonely house, leaving him to fend for himself?"

The doctor looked at Merlin for a long time, and despite Merlin's vast experience as a Kingsman agent, it was still hard to read what was going through the therapist's mind. Finally, Dr. McKenna spoke.

"But he's _not_ being left to fend for himself, Merlin. We're always here for Harry, ready to listen or help should he say the word. He just needs to learn that he can ask whenever he wants. Learn that he doesn't have to carry the burden all on his shoulders, because we're there to lighten the load. And most importantly..." The doctor tilted his head at him, and there was something knowing in his words. "He has _you_."

Harry was going soft. He knew he was. He's grown too used to sleeping in an actual bed with pillows and sheets and comforters. Grown too used to not keeping one eye open, always peeking over his shoulder.

And he'd _tried_ to stay alert and in top condition, tried not to get comfortable, because if he'd ever have to go on the run again, surviving on the streets would be twice as worse, because now...now he's gotten a taste of what it felt like to be safe. To be happy.

To have friends that cared about you, and have holidays and birthdays and parties and down-time. What it's like to wake up not because you were on a set schedule, but because your body was simply rested enough.

The Harry from two years ago wouldn't have let any of his unease show. Wouldn't have even thought to have unease about having a roof over his head, massive or otherwise. He'd have been grateful that he could sleep without having his knives close at hand the whole night. He'd have been grateful for simply having a spot to sleep in, period, no matter if it was a closet or a small nook in a train station.

But this was not the Harry from two years ago, alone and angry. This Harry was one that made Arthur proud with each inch he moved forward, with each mission accomplished. This Harry made Merlin smile and laugh every day, and made the formidable Dr. McKenna shake his head in fond exasperation every time he pulled another prank on him.

This Harry...was Galahad.

He understood why Arthur got him this place. He understood why Dr. McKenna thought it was necessary for him to live away from the mansion. Independence, yes, but...Harry just could not see himself becoming comfortable here.

The only place he found any sort of familiarity with, was the closet. And he'd seen the flicker of emotion that had passed over Merlin's face, masked just as quickly as it appeared, when he'd pointed out his makeshift bed, which confirmed once again to Harry that he was not normal. He probably wouldn't _ever be_ a normal teenager, not with all that he's gone through, and especially not with his current lifestyle. Then again...he didn't want to be normal.

This was who he was, and while his story would be considered as tragic...he was damn proud of what he's become. This was him. He survived all the shite he'd been put through, and he's stronger now because of it. Which was why he's standing here now in his flat, berating himself for being such an ungrateful idiot and feeling so ill at ease with all of this comfort afforded to him.

The sound of his doorbell echoing through the vast rooms and halls, was so out of place and abrupt that Harry had to fight down the instinct to pull out his knife. He'd only heard it once before, when Arthur had brought him here the first time, and they'd had to ring the doorbell to have Alice let them in.

Strange...an assassin wouldn't announce his presence by ringing the doorbell, would they? One of the neighbors, perhaps.

Even so, he approached the entrance of his 'home' with caution, sneaking up to the wooden barrier and peeking through the peephole (conveniently placed at his height).

Merlin...

And Alice?

Why were they here?

"We know you're there, love," Alice called out. Harry cursed under his breath, because just how did that woman seem to always know when he was sneaking around all the time!? Perhaps it's because her husband's a Kingsman agent as well, and so she's used to having people tip-toeing around her like crouching tigers.

He unlocked the chain, disabled the alarm system, and opened the door to reveal his unexpected visitors.

"Hello, dear," Alice greeted him the moment the wood swung all the way inwards, inviting herself in and pulling Harry to her chest for a hug, and it was all Harry could do to not flinch or stiffen up like a board.

His responding "Hello" sounded more like a question than a greeting. Alice pulled away from him, and moved into the house, leaving a smirking Merlin to stand in the doorway. Harry was tempted to slam the door in his smug face.

"Well..." Merlin's eyes danced with laughter. "aren't you going to invite your _guest_ in?"

Harry grit his teeth, already mentally preparing the punishment Merlin would receive later by blindsiding him like this - whatever 'this' was - and stepped aside to let the older Kingsman through.

The hour between letting Alice and Merlin into his house, and standing..._here_...was spent mostly confused, bewildered, and completely floundering under the whirlwind that was Alice King. She'd blown in, a massive amount of exclamations and questions left in her wake, and like ducklings, Merlin and Harry trailed behind her.

Questions like: "What do you think of this painting, dear?" or "What couch would suit you?" and "Oh, this is horribly out of style for a fifteen year old boy, isn't it?" to which he'd grumbled "Almost sixteen."

And then there were the exclamations, like "Oh, what was I thinking, choosing this for you!" and "I do apologize, love, I get caught up sometimes. I should have remembered!"

Harry didn't really understand all that she was saying to him, what she was apologizing for, but he went along with it, nodding and such. And then they all but forced him into the car, and off they went, Merlin driving while Alice chattered Harry's ear off in the back seat.

And now _here _they were; in a shop that Harry would never have dreamed of stepping foot in voluntarily, staring down at the two different colors of bedsheets that Alice was holding out to him.

"Well, love, which one? Royal Purple," she indicated the sheets in her right hand. "or Silk Road?" the ones in her left.

Silk Road? Harry's traveled down many roads in his time, and never once have they been made out of silk. Why would yellow/gold be the color for silk road when it wasn't even a real thing!?

So...to break it down to a more simplistic term...purple or gold?

Purple seemed like the safer option.

"Fine choice, love," Alice said, and stacked it onto Merlin's waiting arms. Dazed, Harry looked to Merlin for some assistance or hint of _what the BLOODY HELL'S going on?_ Merlin, behind the pile of bedsheets and comforters, simply winked at him. The bastard was enjoying this, wasn't he!? He enjoying seeing Harry squirm!

Because _here_, in this massive shopping galleria, filled with shoppers and raucous children and well-meaning sales clerks, Harry was completely out of his element. He was torn between following Alice's advice of "Do try to relax, love, you look like you're about to jump through the nearest window.", and actually jumping through the nearest window.

He was on high alert, constantly checking his surroundings, counting the exits, watching for any possible threat. But the logical part of his mind told him that there was no need to be so stretched thin about his safety.

This was _just _a mall. _Just _regular people around him, shopping. They wouldn't try to hurt him or kidnap him.

He was just another fifteen year old boy, an ordinary teenager like the ones that were milling around this place, chattering away with their friends with an ignorant bliss that made Harry slightly envious.

Still, though, despite the logical part of his mind whispering that he was fine, he couldn't help it. He fingered, obsessively, the hilt of the knife hidden up his sleeve, glaring at a child that had recklessly barreled in front of him.

"Come along, lad, let's not keep the lady waiting," Merlin said, already moving to follow Alice down the row of sheets towards the pillows section.

Harry gaped at the massive selection of pillows, ranging from soft to extra firm. He didn't have a preference. The only thing he cared about before in regards to his pillow preference, was that he preferred them to be dry and free of blood. Alice tilted her head at him, a curious expression on her face, and then declared, "Firm, it is!" and shoved the selected pillow into his arms.

_Now _they were at the bed frames. "Umm..." There were wooden ones. Ones with padding. Ones with designs on them. All sorts of colors.

Well...the one with the padding, he could easily slip a knife into and it'd still look like it was untampered with, so he decided on that one. Alice's face lit up, and Harry couldn't help smiling back, proud that he'd put that bit of happiness on her.

"Good choice, Galahad," Merlin whispered to him as Alice promptly flagged down one of the roaming sales representatives.

He's...uh...getting the hang of this. He thinks.

They went to the kitchen section, where Harry insisted the silverware and accessories the house had were fine, and so they moved on. Kitchen tables, lamps, paintings for the walls.

Harry chose, based on what he thought would be best turned into weapons or barricades, and when the items being debated upon weren't really useful for either, he chose based on his tastes. He found that he liked darker colors, brown and gray and black. He liked that they contrasted well with white, which was Alice's favorite color, and so many of the things in his house were that hue.

They were passing through the first floor of the large shopping mall, on their way to get Harry more clothes (Something that Harry had insisted he had an abundance of, to which Alice had retorted, "Sweatpants, three pairs of jeans, service issued t-shirts, tailored suits, and your armor do not count."), when something caught Harry's eye. It wasn't a big store by any means, and compared to the amount of people turn-stiling through the other shops, it was relatively empty.

But the items in this store called to Harry like nothing has before. And he stopped, like Alice had requested of him if he saw anything that caught his eye, and looked in.

Pianos, violins, instruments of all kinds. Sheets of music, accessories, the walls filled with anything and everything one would need for music.

"See something you like, mouse?" Merlin's tone was light, almost like he was coaxing Harry to go in. And Harry didn't resist when Alice said, "Come along, love, let's not dawdle. We still have five more shops to go through."

If Harry weren't so entranced by the gleaming baby grand displayed in the middle of the showroom floor, he'd have balked, because _five more shops_!?

Caught in the gravity of the shiny, black instrument, Harry stepped up to the piano, allowed Alice to deal with the nice man that welcomed them to the store.

"I didn't know you played," Merlin's voice was close to Harry's ear, a soft touch so Harry knew he was there. Harry reached out and touched hesitant fingertips to white ivory.

"My mother taught me when I was a child." He caressed the black keys - bittersweet as memories surged forwards of days when his biggest worries were the bullies at his school - then moved onto the smooth, varnished wood.

"We had an upright piano..." Harry inclined his chin toward the ones that lined the walls. "...like that one. It was secondhand, and even though a few of the keys didn't work, it was still my mother's favorite spot in the house."

He smiled, wistful and sad, as he spoke. "She would sit me down on her lap, because I was too short to reach the pedals, and she'd show me what keys were for which notes. She taught me little ditties at first, then when she realized I was a natural, she moved on to more complex pieces."

He took his hand away from the baby grand, settling it back at his side. Standing so close to Merlin, lost in the stream of his memories, of his mother's loving and gentle words as she told him how proud she was, he missed the way Merlin's hand brushed against his.

"This would look wonderful in the front room, don't you think, Harry?" Alice asked, appearing suddenly on Harry's left side. Harry would swear on the Bible that Arthur's line of work must have rubbed off on his wife too, because she moved like a five foot ten, one hundred and thirty pound, brunette ninja when she wanted to.

"I - I'm not sure." He really wasn't. He didn't know what belonged in a front room. His parents' house had a couch and a television for their front room, and that was about it. Harry used to do his homework lying on his stomach in front of the television, watching Doctor Who reruns.

"I think it's perfect there, Alice," Merlin put in helpfully, and that was all Alice needed to know before sweeping off to find that sales associate again.

Three days later, Harry stood with Merlin in the middle of _his_ front room - his, to call his own - a bit starry-eyed as he admired the black Steinway, enjoyed the way the lights overhead of _his _ceiling shone off of the shiny black body of _his _piano.

"Well, mouse, don't you want to take it for a test ride?" Merlin asked, nudging Harry with his shoulder. It wasn't until he was on the bench, his fingers laid out on the ivory, that Harry realized he'd forgotten how to play. He still remembered which keys belonged to which notes on paper. He could still play, technically, but his fingers have forgotten what it was like to press down on the key, what it was like to produce and hear the sound each one made.

The muscle memory from his mother's lessons, had been long since replaced by other skills. The muscles in his hands and fingers were more familiar with deconstructing and rebuilding rifles than they were with scaling the piano. His feet were more used to running and jumping off high rises than they were pressing gently down on the pedals.

Merlin's shoulder brushed against Harry's as he sat down next to him on the bench. Long, deft fingers perched themselves on the ivory near Harry's own immobile hands, and without preamble, started to play. Harry blinked, coming back to himself, and looked up to the side of Merlin's face. Merlin turned to him, still plucking out the beginning notes of Pachelbel Canon, and smiled. "My grandmother taught me. I can show you how to play again...if you want."

That afternoon, Merlin patiently reminded Harry through this impromptu lesson, that, no matter how stained with blood his hands were, he could still produce something beautiful and wondrous.

"How was your shopping trip, Harry? I heard it was quite hectic in the malls, it being so close to Christmas and all."

Harry had to laugh at that, because 'hectic' was an understatement. It was flippin' insane! And Alice was ruthless! Like a shopping tyrant, she'd dragged them into more stores than Harry could count. It'd all become one big blur after they purchased the piano, of choices and colors and getting his toes smashed by baby carriages.

"It was fine." He enhanced it with a shrug.

Doctor McKenna's amused grin showed that he knew more than he let on. Well, the man did have a wife and family, which he'd need to brave the crowds and insanity to shop for, so he must understand what it's like.

"And how have you been sleeping?"

Harry knew the question was actually '_Where_ have you been sleeping?', but the doctor had more tact than that. He shrugged again and said, "Better, now that I've found out all the windows are shatterproof and bulletproof. And I'm genuinely impressed by the alarm system that Merlin installed."

Though he's slowly migrated from the closet onto the bed that he'd picked out, with the Royal Purple sheets that matched the black padded frame, he's still not used to the quiet that stretched throughout his large house. He'd need to adjust to the idea that there weren't any midnight oil-burners milling around the halls outside, bleary eyed and hyped up on caffeine. There weren't any stationed guards patrolling the place. Their presence, a comfort that Harry didn't know he'd been luxuriating in until it was gone.

Disgusted with himself now at the thought. He's soft...weak...couldn't even adjust to being alone, even though he's been alone for a large part of his life.

"It's slowly coming together," the doctor said, and Harry had to consider the man's words for a moment because he couldn't really make the connection.

"Coming together?" Harry parroted, confused.

"Your home," Doctor McKenna clarified. "It'll take time, Harry, before those four walls and a roof become more than just four walls and a roof. As the days and months and years pass us by, little things will be added in, things that are a part of who you are, of who Harry Hart is when you're not Galahad. It's already started, hasn't it?"

A flash of gleaming black, a shine that reminded Harry of Merlin's eyes under the sun. "The piano," he deduced, and the doctor nodded.

"Yes, the piano. Alice put you through all that suffering, not because she wanted to torture you and Merlin. But because she wanted you to have things that _you _picked out. That _you _looked at and decided, 'I want this one'. Because that's what a home is. It's a glorified storage unit. One that you can sleep in too."

Harry laughed at the doctor's description. "I thought 'home is where the heart is'."

"That too," the doctor conceded with a bob of his head and a wry grin. "But a home doesn't just store personal belongings, materialistic things. It holds memories too. The piano, you chose because it reminded you of your mother. And soon enough, your home will be filled with the things that hold a special place in your heart. And then you'll realize that the quiet that is so blaringly loud right now, will have disappeared, replaced by the snippets of memories that litter the rooms and halls."

Memories.

Arthur and Alice, sprawled on his couch, cups of wine in hand. Merlin, laughing at Harry for trying to play 'host' when they took a break from playing on the piano.

Indeed...

_Home is where the heart is._

Miles away, Eggsy and his mum loaded their belongings into a moving van. They'd had to sell his father's house because his mum's sudden drop into alcoholism meant she'd been sacked from her third job. Without any income, they'd been forced to move, selling their family home for money.

That flame that had been burning inside Eggsy's chest ever since his father died, grew even bigger as they drove away, his father's house becoming a blip in the distance behind them.


	13. Chapter 13

_Yes, I'm alive. I know, I know, it's been...much too long. I'm so sorry, guys! God, you don't know how sorry I am._

_In my absence, friends, I've come to realize that my writing style has changed drastically. I've changed tenses, to say the least, so you'll definitely see that big difference. And just in general, my writing style has started to evolve [improve?]. In the future, I will be going back to the earlier chapters and editing them to reflect my current style, but for now, back to the show! _

_Anyways, this is a bit of a time jump. Jumping to...whatever legal driving age is in Britain. Don't worry, we'll go back to our regular scheduled programming later. I just can't seem to get past that fudging wall! *sigh*_

_But this scene, like that parkouring chapter, explains quickly how Eggsy picks up those crazy driving skills we saw in the movie. _

There aren't many things in life that can scare a Kingsman as experienced as Percivel himself. Some are trivial, a byproduct of his humanity. And like any human, he has his phobias. Things like snakes, and germs, and heights and all that. The usual stuff.

Dying, is definitely one of his fears. All living creatures are scared of dying, it's just the way of nature. And those that aren't, are...umm...

Broken?

Broken could be the word for it.

Or just...apathetic. That's another word.

People like Percivel aren't necessarily broken or apathetic to death. People like Percivel have gotten, oh how to explain, _used _to the idea of it. After surrounding oneself with death, it's hard to not grow accustomed to it.

Percivel knows that, when the time comes for his luck to run out, he'll go down with dignity; squared shoulders and his head held high. Metaphorically speaking of course. There's no telling what position he'd be in when the time actually came, but he likes to think that he's ready for it. That he's able to handle the thought of his life fading away into the abyss like the stars in the night like the man he is.

He's imagined it. Of course he has. Every person on Earth has imagined their own death one time or other. Hell, some even go so far as to enact the scene. Those people...now, those people just take that curiosity to a whole other level.

Percivel likes to think his death would come about as something spectacular. A plane crash, going down in a blaze of glory type of thing. Or maybe sacrificing himself to save a bunch of orphaned children. He'll reach out a bloody hand to them, the children's wide eyes filled with gratitude and hero-worship, and gasp with his last dying breath, "You're safe now, little ones."

It's kind of ridiculous, he has to admit. But he's allowed to dream. It makes the thought of dying less terrifying because it makes him laugh every time he thinks about it.

But of all the scenarios that he's ever thought up in regards to his last moments on Earth, all the dignity that he swore he'd manage, he'd never expected to react like _this_ in the face of oncoming destruction.

"Oh my God, TURN! TURN! No, BRAKE! BRAKE NOW!"

"STOP YELLING AT ME, YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT!"

"You're going to hit it, you're going to hit it!"

"No, I'm not! Stop passenger seat driving!"

Percivel grabs onto the handlebar for dear life, white-knuckled the entire way as the car careens around the corner, tires screeching, barely missing a little old lady crossing the road with her white poodle.

"You almost hit the old broad!" Percivel yells.

He's trying not to yell, because he knows it'll just stress the kid out even more, but there's no way for him to modulate his voice or emotions right now. Not when they're gunning it down the street at almost 70 miles an hour, drifting the turns like they're participating in the Grand Prix instead of simply having a driving lesson.

He's a Kingsman, for fuck's sakes, and yet it doesn't stop him from screaming like a five year old girl on a roller coaster ride she hadn't even wanted to go on, when Galahad starts swerving in and out of rush hour traffic.

"Bloody fuc – Stop the car! Stop the car RIGHT NOW!" Percivel demands.

And Galahad does.

_Right_ in the _middle_ of a four-lane intersection.

Just slams on the brakes and comes to a full stop, which would have had Percivel flying through the windshield were it not for his safety belt, and puts on the E-brake.

Parked.

Idling.

In the middle of that four-lane intersection.

The kid actually looks at Percivel like he's confused. CONFUSED!

"Why did you tell me to stop?" Galahad huffs, and Percivel can tell he's irritated, because the boy's doing that thing where he's got his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned and his jaw muscles jumping like crazy.

"Because - " And Percivel has to take a moment to just breathe. Just loosen his hand from the handlebar, keep his heart from rabbiting out of his chest, and just _breathe_.

"Because," Percivel repeats once he feels his blood pressure start to come back down again. "you're not driving. I don't know what that was, but that wasn't driving."

Galahad scoffs, and throws his arms over his chest, the very picture of teenage defiance. "That was driving, old man. Just because you – "

"No, no, no, we weren't driving," Percivel insists with a wag of his finger and vehement shakes of his head. "We were in the process of _crashing_, that's what we were doing! Do you know how many cars you could have hit? How many people you could have run into!? We could have died a thousand times over!"

"But did you?"

Percivel blinks. "Did I what?"

"Did you die?" Harry repeats, but his voice is drowned out by the honking and shouting that has started from the four lanes filled with cars that they're blocking right now.

"_Ya twat! Get the fuck out of the road!" _

"_Oi, move it!" _

"_Get that piece of shit out of the way, what's the matter wit' ya?!"_

"N-No, we didn't - " Percivel says, then hiccups a bubble of hysterical laughter. "Cor blimey, I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you. How do you not understand what regular driving – "

"_MOVE IT, YA TOSSER!" HONK HONK HONNNNNNNNKKKKK_

Galahad sighs, "Hold that thought." and then lowers the driver side window of his brand new hotrod red Mazda Miata which he'd just bought with Percivel not thirty minutes ago.

From _somewhere_, Galahad pulls out a Beretta PX-4 Semi-Automatic, and points the barrel out the window. He doesn't even need to say anything. Just lets the weapon do all the talking.

"OK, no, that's… th-that's not..." Percivel stutters, but he's not even certain how to put into words all the _wrongs_ that are in this picture right now.

The honking and shouts for them to move, though, stop immediately.

The entire street is silent. Can hear a pin drop, even.

Galahad comes back inside the car and raises up his window, tosses the gun into the armrest carelessly, and waves for him to, "Go on."

And Percivel. Percivel's not even capable of formulating his thoughts into a coherent sentence just yet.

"What were you trying to say before?" Galahad prompts again.

OK, umm...

OK, maybe he'll start there; where he'd left off. Or finish? Since he'd started it already.

Finish, start, whatever.

He blurts the first thing that comes to mind, "How are you even real?" because _seriously_. How is a kid like Harry even _real_? "You can speak seven different languages, but you don't know how to write an essay. You know how to emotionally manipulate a target in three hundred different ways, but you don't know how to get a proper birthday gift for Arthur. You can drive at breakneck speeds, do a wheelie on a motorcycle going a hundred miles per hour, but you can't even stop at a stop sign for the full three beats. You can hotwire a car in five seconds flat, but you can't even park."

At that, Harry lifts up an index finger. "Actually, I _can _park. I can parallel park like nobody's business, I'll have you know. You should have seen me last time, Percivel, drifting into that tight parking spot going 75 down the opposite side of the road. I slapped on that E-brake and whipped the car right into that spot like they'd cleared it just for me."

Is he –

Is he serious?

Harry's grinning at Percivel like the cat that got the milk, sincerely proud of himself.

And it dawns on Percivel now, that Harry must not have learned how to drive the way a normal teenager would have been taught. With somebody in the passenger seat guiding them through the steps, offering support and help.

The way a kid like _Harry_ would have learned, would have involved...

Well...

Would have probably involved more guns and bullets and chases and running for one's life than actual teaching.

And now Percivel understands. Oh he should have before, but who thinks of it really? They look at this boy, and everybody sees a cocky, self-assured, smartass.

They see _Galahad_, in other words.

But _Harry._..Harry's just a kid. A kid that never got to live life like one. Because Harry comes from a world of darkness. Violence. Where each thought and decision he makes, each breath he takes, is for the sake of life and death. It's the only world that Harry knows. And people forget that all the time.

Well, Percivel's going to do his best to give this kid the life Harry should have had. The life that had been taken away from him. Starting with...

"All right, Galahad, start driving. I'll teach you what to do."

x

Eggsy is just stepping out of his school with his mates, backpack slung over his shoulder, when a red convertible comes shrieking to a stop in front of them.

"Nice wheels, bruv," his mate Jeffrey calls out to the driver. Eggsy agrees.

"_Definitely_ nice," Lucy crows suggestively, sending the driver an appreciative and flirtatious bat of her green eyes.

And that, Eggsy does _not _agree. For reasons he can't fathom right now, he does _not_ agree, and pointedly steps forward, conveniently placing himself between her and the driver. Because in the driver's seat, with a pair of cliché black Ray-Bans and a welcoming smirk on his face, is..._who else could it be..._Colin.

"Hop in," Colin says to Eggsy. _Only_ to Eggsy, like they're the only two people in the world right now.

Eggsy does as told immediately, jogging over to the passenger side and hopping in over the window without opening the door itself. And as they drive off, tires pealing, streaking down the road with the wind in their hair, Eggsy can practically feel the curiosity and envy coming off of his mates in waves.

The hotrod is _fast_, and Colin's a fucking amazing driver, taking those turns like a pro-drifter. Eggsy has a white-knuckle grip on the handlebar, whooping at the top of his lungs as Colin does a quick 180, then starts driving down the street _backwards._

"You _have_ to teach me that!" Eggsy yells, breathless, to the older boy.

Colin takes his eyes off of the road for a moment and looks over at him, and Eggsy can see his own face lit up with happiness and excitement in the dark sunglasses, and simply replies back with...

"Sure."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

OK guys, let me know in the comments what you think. It's life for me. The breath in my lungs, and all that.


	14. Chapter 14

"Has he agreed to it?" Arthur murmurs as he comes to stand next to Merlin behind the observation window. The Kingsman inclines his body towards Arthur, but does not take his eyes off of his clipboard.

"Begrudgingly, yes," Merlin answers absentmindedly, ticking something off on his clipboard before lowering it to clasp against his body with both hands, giving the two men inside the room his full attention.

"He'd be a wonderful teacher," Arthur notes thoughtfully. "His experience is unique, and he'd offer an insight into combat that no others can give."

"Indeed," Merlin nods. "He understands the necessity of learning and teaching, yes. But his reluctance stems more from his unwillingness to associate himself with these prospects. He looks at them with disdain in his eyes sometimes, though he does understand that they had no part in Lancelot's death."

"He's still feeling guilty, after all this time," Arthur sighs. "As ashamed as I am to say it, though, the former Lancelot's death has set Harry on the right track."

Merlin hums non-commitally, picking up his clipboard to read through the statistics to Arthur. "The last two candidates, both Oxford graduates. Robert Henry, age 28. Promising in all fields, but lacks aggressiveness. Maximilian Broadmoor, age 31. Excelled in all areas, but a bit of a hothead. His arrogance makes him a poor fit for team efforts, and is more prone to impulsive decisions than analytical."

Arthur lets out a small chortle under his breath, not holding back the wry smile as he watches Broadmoor dancing around the rink, jabbing at the air while Henry takes his time stretching by the benches. "Let's see how long his arrogance lasts, shall we?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees Merlin's lips also twitch upwards in a suppressed grin.

Broadmoor's a typical, spoiled, billionaire's son, with tendencies that lean more towards bullying than anything just because of his stature and class. While he's a good candidate, with the assertiveness and brilliance that any of their operatives require, he'll have to be knocked down a few notches before he can be molded into the perfect Kingsman.

There's a reason why the military organizations of the world have bootcamps. The drill sergeant's job is to break down a soldier's behavior, ingrained and formed from civilian life, wipe the slate clean before building them back up in a way that would prepare them for the militaristic world.

In this case, instead of bootcamps, they have a lesson; a hard lesson that these two recruits will have to learn.

"He's here," Merlin announces a split second before the door inside the sparring room opens.

Harry comes tumbling in, a flurry of mussed hair and breathlessness, an arm full of books, dressed in regulation sweats. He freezes like a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed as he takes in the room with the same confused energy as a lost squirrel. The pair of men inside pause to take in the newcomer.

"OH!" the boy chirps, his voice pitched higher than usual. "I'm - I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong room."

"More like you've got the wrong building entirely, rugrat," Broadmoor quips, settling against the ropes to take a swig of water, smug and self-assured. Though Harry hides it quite well, the slight twitch of the boy's eye at the term 'rugrat' certainly doesn't escape Arthur's notice. Arthur won't be surprised if Broadmoor ends up in the med-bay after this.

"Are you looking for someone?" Henry asks, abandoning his stretches.

Harry looks back at the door quickly, then down at his paper, every bit the harried student he's supposed to be. "Umm...Well...Yes, actually, is - is this where the defense classes are supposed to take place?"

"You?! Learning to fight!?" Broadmoor busts out a good hearty laugh as he ducks under the ropes. He hops off the platform and lands on the floor with a loud thud, strolling up to the boy with an assessing gaze. "Training them young, I see."

"Who were you supposed to meet for the class?" Henry asks, frowning.

"Umm.." Harry worries on his lip as he studies his paper. "Maximilian Broadmoor and Robert Henry? Which, I assume, must be you two. I'd thought that there'd be more people here, considering it's a class and all. But - "

"Guess you're going to be learning from us then, rugrat!" Broadmoor announces, drowning out Henry's quiet, "That's odd. Weren't we supposed to be learning from a new instructor today? And Merlin never mentioned anything about a new recruit."

Broadmoor slaps a hand on Harry's shoulder and steers him towards the rink, ignoring Henry's warning, "Perhaps we should wait for Merlin, Maximilian. Something feels off about this."

Arthur quirks up an eyebrow for the astute observation. He can see what Merlin was saying about these two recruits. Henry is level-headed, calm, and takes his time in asking the appropriate questions, but he lacks the drive that Broadmoor has. Broadmoor, though, is too self-assured, too confident in his abilities, that he doesn't even think to question his judgment or the situation.

"Nonsense, ol' chap! I'm sure Merlin's bushed, dealing with you and I. Something as simple as showing the rugrat the proverbial ropes, is the least we can do to help out the poor bloke," Broadmoor declares to Henry, thumping Harry hard on his back before divulging the boy of his books and helping him onto the platform. "Come along then, rugrat, let's see what you're made of."

Broadmoor holds the rope up for Harry to pass through, and over his shoulder, the man sends Henry a conspiratorial wink and smirk, as if to say _Let's show this kid what he's really getting himself into._

Henry, suspicious still, merely shakes his head in resignation, and sits back to watch.

"All right, rugrat, you stand here," Broadmoor says, stationing Harry on one side of the rink while he goes to retrieve another set of gloves for the boy. "Put these on. Extra-small should be perfect for you. You know what these are?" He asks, showing Harry his own gloves. "These are to protect your hands and, well, your face. I'm sure your mum and dad would not be too happy if you go back home with a - no no no you put it on backwards, it's like this - they won't be too happy if you go back home with a black eye and split lip, now would they?"

"No, sir," Harry answers, holding up his newly-gloved hands to examine curiously. The fingerless padded gloves will offer protection, as Broadmoor stated, to Harry's hands, wrist, and, well, _Broadmoor's_ face.

Broadmoor takes his own position opposite Harry, his hands raised into a fighting stance, bouncing on his toes. "All right, rugrat. First lesson..." throws out a right jab.

Harry promptly deflects the hit, and connects his fist with Broadmoor's face. Despite the gloves adding much needed padding, the man goes down like a sack of potatoes, blood spurting out of his broken nose. Henry yelps in surprise, flying off the bench, but he doesn't dare approach. Wise to be cautious, Arthur thinks approvingly.

Harry steps over Broadmoor's body until he's standing over the man's chest, feet on either side of his torso. Across the expanse of his body, Harry looks down and tells Broadmoor in his real voice, "Actually, Broadmoor, first lesson: don't trust anyone. Which brings me to the next lesson:_ never_ underestimate your opponent."

Dazed, Broadmoor blinks up at the boy, one hand trying valiantly to staunch the flow of blood.

"Get up," Harry orders, backing off of the man.

"You - Are y - Are you mad!? The _bloody hell_ do you think you are?" Broadmoor sputters furiously, spitting out blood. The effect of his anger is a bit lost, considering his voice is comically nasally, and he's sprawled still on the floor, his right elbow propping him up and his left held under his nose. Henry comes up to the side of the rink, helpfully throwing in a towel, which Broadmoor snatches up immediately and presses it to his face.

"I'm your worst nightmare," Harry quips with a roll of his eyes. Arthur hears Merlin chuckle under his breath.

"You're the new instructor then, I take it," Henry deduces, climbing onto the platform to stand by the corner.

"That I am, Mr. Henry," Harry nods, and points a finger at Broadmoor. "Just a fair warning, considering this is my first day with you gentlemen, I abhor repetition. I am giving you to the count of three to get up, or else you're disqualified."

"Disqua - ! You must be - !" Broadmoor bellows, speechless. He waves wildly at his face. "Don't you see I have a broken nose, you loony twat!"

"And you're going to fight through it," Harry drawls lazily. "There are no time-outs in the real world. It's either kill or be killed, and just because you have a broken nose, doesn't mean your opponent will go easy on you. Now. Get. UP."

Arthur has to give it to the man when Broadmoor gathers his dignity and courage and throws the towel to the side, climbing to a stand, uncaring of the way the entire lower half of his face is covered in gore, and raises his fists up at the ready.

Merlin scribbles something down onto his clipboard.

The spar that ensues, isn't so much a spar as it is Broadmoor trying to get hit after hit in, and Harry dodging each blow with such fluidity it's like he knows exactly where the man's going to aim even before Broadmoor thinks to do so.

As the minutes tick past, Arthur can see Broadmoor getting more and more frustrated by his inability to even _touch _the boy. At one point, the man's started to growl, rumbling low in his throat like an irate dog. A sure sign that he'll be snapping soon.

The recruit's patience peters out at around the twenty minute mark, and then his frustration takes over completely. He sends out a wild left hook, and Harry sinks down low, twists his body around and sweeps Broadmoor's feet out from under him with a leg.

Broadmoor hits the mat hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him in one big _oof_.

Harry doesn't even sound breathless when he returns to his corner, re-strapping his gloves tighter. "Next lesson. Actually, they're not lessons; they're rules. Rules that you'd be wise to remember if you know what's good for you. So...third rule: never let your emotions cloud your mind. _You_ control _them_, they don't control you."

"That was underhanded, was it not?" Henry remarks as Broadmoor groans and wheezes air back into his lungs.

"Are you saying that I cheated, Mr. Henry?" Harry asks, tilting his head at the other man. "I wasn't aware that when one's fighting to the death, there are policies and restrictions. Rule number 4: _there are no rules_. Do whatever you must to win. Do whatever you need to survive. Hell, I once took a chunk out of a man's arm just to keep myself from being strangled to death."

"Umm, I'm not sure how I should feel about that little anecdote," Henry mutters uncertainly, blinking rapidly with a frown.

"You don't need to feel anything," Harry tells him, and goes over to kick Broadmoor on the leg to get him up again. "All you need to remember is that nothing in this world is fair. People of all ages, sizes, and color will always be there to kill you every step of the way. You can't trust anyone. The only person you can trust, is yourself. Through the thick and thin, you will be the one person that you can always depend on. No one else."

"That's pretty dark, coming from a rugrat," Broadmoor groans, struggling into a stand.

Harry shrugs. "The world is a dark place. I'm just here to knock you on your arses enough times for you to remember that. You'll be a Kingsman. You'll be facing the worst that humanity has to offer. There will be hordes of people who will do all they can to kill you; with all sorts of underhanded moves. And to keep them from being successful, you will do everything necessary to make sure you survive. If it means you have to bite and cheat and scrape and crawl through the mud and shit to stay alive, then you do so."

"All right, rugrat," Broadmoor says, smirking through the blood. He raises his fists up to the ready, and jerks his chin up at Harry. "No holding back this time. Let's see what you got."

Looks like having the wind knocked out of him, has given the man a burst of fresh air. There's a gleam in Broadmoor's eyes that tell Arthur he knows exactly who Merlin will choose for Lancelot's position.

-x-

Miles away...

Eggsy trudges back home alone, miserable and hurt and angry. He kicks open the front gate, and ducks his face down when the door to their flat swings open. He isn't surprised when a man he's never seen before, steps out of it, looking every bit like the cat that got the cream. HIs mum stands framed in the doorway, blowing the man a kiss, which the bloody sod catches in the air and presses to his lips.

Eggsy holds back a gag at that, and steps around his mum to get in the house. He almost makes it to the sanctity of his room when his mum finally closes the door and calls to him, "Eggsy? Eggsy, what in the world happened to your face?"

Eggsy's surprised she even noticed, what with the way she'd been making doe-eyes at the bloke who's currently Lay Of The Day.

"Nothing happened," he grunts back, not in the mood at all to make nice.

She's behind him before Eggsy even notices, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him around to face her. Feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, Eggsy can't make himself look up. She touches her fingers to his chin, and coaxes him until he's looking her in the eyes.

His mum sighs, sympathetic. "Who was it this time, my love?"

"It was no one," Eggsy lies. Well, not _exactly_ a lie. It was not one, but a group of them. He'd fought and scratched and bit his way out of the fight. He's just glad he got out of it with only a bloody nose, a cut lip, a few bruises, and a black eye. His pride, more than anything, took the biggest hit.

She sighs again, hearing everything that he's not telling her. She leads him down the hall to the bathroom, where a first aid kit is most likely making an appearance in the close future.

"What happened?" she asks, sitting him down on the edge of the tub.

"Does it matter?" he grumbles to his blood-specked, dirt-caked shoes.

"To me, it does," she says, scrounging through various drawers.

He doesn't respond, so she pokes at the subject again. "Was it because - "

"It's nothing, OK?!" Eggsy snaps. "Just forget it, mum!"

She does. For a short amount of time. But in the duration where she's wetting a towel with warm water for him to press to his eye, she says softly, "You know you can tell me anything, right Eggsy? I'm your mum, and I love you, and I would do anything for you. I'll be here to listen whenever you're ready to talk."

_Annnnnd_ now Eggsy feels like absolute filth. He sighs, and rolls his eyes up to the heavens to search for strength. Oh sod it.

"Some blokes at me school made some comments which I took offense to. I told them to fuck off, and they responded by punching me in the face. End of story," he explains, not bothering to expand on anything more.

He's not going to tell his mum that those imbeciles were talking about her. Talking about how she's the bicycle of the town, letting all the men ride her anytime they wanted.

Just the memory of it has rage boiling under his skin again, and he clenches his hands into fists to keep from punching a hole into the wall.

His mum rings out the excess water from the towel, and hands it to him. He presses it to his eyes, savoring the warmth against his aching muscles.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks, crouching down to be at eye level with him.

_You can stop sleeping around. You can stop drinking. You can start acting like the mother you used to be. You can bring my father back from the dead. _

"No," he mumbles. "I'll be fine, mum."

"I know you will, Eggsy. You're always so strong, and I know no matter what you go through, you'll keep your head held high and your spine straight. I'm very proud of you, love."

Eggsy looks at his mum. She smiles warmly at him, but her eyes...her eyes still hold so much sadness.

Like sunshine through the rain.


End file.
